


Red Robin Hood

by candlebreak



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Accidental Sibling Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, And is easily the most badass character, Angst, BAMF Cassandra Cain, BAMF Stephanie Brown, Background Core Four (Young Justice), Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, But he loves his children and he does get better, But know that it’s there, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassandra Cain is Batgirl, Child Soldiers, Does he succeed? ehhhh, Drama, Gen, Good Sibling Cassandra Cain, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, In this house we remember that Stephanie Brown was a Robin, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason is a Huge Nerd, Kidnapping, Ma Kent makes an appearance or two, More discussion of suicide than I thought there would be, POV Alternating, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Jason Todd, Psychological Torture, Stephanie Brown Deserves Better, Stephanie Brown Is Not Here For Your Shit, Stephanie Brown Needs a Hug, Stephanie Brown is Robin, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Robin, Timeline What Timeline, Titans Tower au, Torture, because Jason is a dramatic shit, but no actual suicide or on-screen attempts, enemies to caretaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29069109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candlebreak/pseuds/candlebreak
Summary: Jason’s rage this time around is a little less focused on Tim forbeingRobin, and a little more focused on Bruce forlettingTim be Robin. He vows to make Bruce regret ever allowing anyone to put on that mantle in the first place. So if he nabs a few batbrats and makes Bruce think he's torturing them to death? Well, that’s just killing two birds with one stone: Bruce doesn’t get to have a Robin,andhe gets to be tormented by the knowledge of his absolute failure to protect any of them. Win-win. (Or lose, if you’re Bruce).Except now Jason has a small and growing collection of Robins, and no idea what he’s supposed to do with them.***a.k.a. the Titans Tower AU where Jason kidnaps Tim instead of trying to kill him. And then he kidnaps Stephanie. And Dick. And Cass. And...Jason may have a problem.Less crack-y than it sounds.
Relationships: Background Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark, Barbara Gordon & Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown & Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain & Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 522
Kudos: 1207
Collections: Red Hood vs Red Robin





	1. Jason

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26362858) by [envysparkler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler). 
  * Inspired by [Beat Him to It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191915) by [iselsis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iselsis/pseuds/iselsis). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So really this could have been inspired by any of Iselsis and EnvySparkler’s works, but I chose those two because they’re some of my favorites, and they involve Jason kidnapping Tim.
> 
>  **General TW** for canon-typical violence, thoughts of suicide, self-harm, torture, some really fucked up patterns of thinking, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, child abuse
> 
>  **Timeline:** this takes place in a timeline that is *mostly* canon-compliant with New Earth canon. So, Jack Drake died pretty recently, and Tim has moved in with his fake uncle in Bludhaven (aka, he’s living alone). Steph was “killed” by Black Mask and is still believed dead. I’m gonna go ahead and say that this is around the same time that Dick is going undercover as Renegade, working with Deathstroke and Ravager, and Cass is infiltrating the Justice League Elite (a Justice League-sanctioned Black Ops teams that…did not end well), which I’m pretty sure may actually line up with canon.
> 
> The main difference between the New Earth timeline and this one is that Jason didn’t reveal his identity to Bruce in Batman #641, so Bruce still has no idea who he is.

Jason slowly tensed and untensed each of his muscles, head to toe, as he lay on the cold concrete roof with his sniper rifle set up in front of him. He’d been there for a few hours already—completely sacrificing his night as Red Hood—but there were too many masks galavanting about this city for him to chance a shoddy stakeout.

Bludhaven wasn’t supposed to be like Gotham; there shouldn’t be so many capes and villains running around. But he guessed that was what happened when Dickwing decided to claim the city as his own. He brought the crazies with him.

Crazies like Jason. Oops.

Speaking of Dickface, he was off playing renegade with Deathstroke on the other side of the city. Jason had confirmed they were far away tonight—and that the Bat was in Gotham—before setting up. He didn’t have nearly the same resources in Bludhaven as he did in Gotham, and he _really_ didn’t fancy a fight with Bruce or Deathstroke-the-fucking-Terminator right then.

Jason had no idea what was going on with Dick; surely Goldie hadn’t actually gone full darkside, but how had he convinced _Slade motherfucking Wilson_ that he had? Because Deathstroke seemed pretty damned convinced, sending Dick on all sorts of missions with his daughter. Which, point for Evil Dick. But Bruce wouldn’t let his one remaining Robin live all alone in a city that had Deathstroke, Ravager, _and_ an evil Dick Grayson running around, would he?

It was a conundrum. Jason had hacked into the Bats’ comm frequency weeks ago, but they hadn’t discussed Dickhead at _all_. At least not where Jason could hear. It didn’t matter. His plan didn’t involve his so-called “big brother.” If all went well, Nightwing wouldn't be involved until it was too late.

But Goldie and the Terminator weren’t the only masks running around the city. Oh, no. The new Batgirl was also supposed to be floating around somewhere, but no one had seen her in a few weeks. No sightings in Gotham, either. It could be she was just quiet, but Jason’s money was that she was either recovering from an injury, training abroad, or undercover somewhere. But he wasn’t going to let his guard down just because she probably wasn’t around right now. Rumor said she was _good,_ and she could be back any time.

Then there was Barbie, who was probably playing Oracle to an extent. Not as much as she did in Gotham, but Jason couldn’t imagine a world where the ex-Batgirl wasn’t at least keeping half an eye out for Dick. And the new Robin.

The final fucking vigilante living in Bludhaven.

The reason Jason was here tonight.

His goddamn _replacement_.

 _Robin_ wasn’t here right now, but Jason was pretty sure he would be. The Bats’ comm line was currently playing in his ear, relayed from Gotham, and it confirmed that the Replacement was in Gotham tonight. The line was fairly quiet, mainly brief status reports between B and Agent A, with occasional insight from Oracle and a few short check-ins from the Replacement. It sounded like the kid was flying solo, on the other side of the city from Bats. And wasn’t _that_ just asking for trouble.

Jason was happy to oblige. That was, after all, why he was here: to cause the bats some fucking trouble. Or, not _here_ here. That would come later. He was _here_ here to do some fucking reconnaissance, the boring-as-shit old fashioned way. He knew their schedules and routines in Gotham, had been listening long enough to map them out, was keeping a pretty close watch on the Teen Titans' activity, but he had one major gap in his intel that needed to be rectified: Eddie Drake. Little Robin’s legal guardian.

He was doing a shit job of it. Oh, on paper he looked fine—an upstanding citizen, clean tax history, fine employment and medical records, a _long_ list of past residences all around the world that reflected the nomadic lifestyle he'd given up to take care of the Replacement as soon as the kid's father died—but that was only on _paper._ As far as Jason could tell from careful stakeouts of the guy’s place, he hadn’t even _seen_ the Replacement in at least two weeks. Tim Drake certainly wasn't living with him. And three days ago, he’d pulled the kid out of school. If Jason didn’t have Robin’s sporadic reports over the comms, he would have thought that Uncle Eddie killed the kid and was trying to cover it up.

 _Something_ fishy was going on, so Jason had tailed the Replacement back to this place a few nights ago, a nondescript apartment building in a semi-nice area of Bludhaven. If anything in Bludhaven could be called even semi-nice. Ownership traced back to a shell company. Now it was just a waiting game. See where Robin came to roost.

 _Fucking_ Timothy Drake, making him give up perfectly good time when he could be crime-lording so that he could stare at an empty apartment in the freezing fucking cold instead.

Jason breathed through the rage that thoughts of the new Robin always brought. He kept his focus on the view through the scope of his rifle, the world washed in cold green clarity. Whether that was the night vision scope or the Pit didn’t matter; either way, it brought Jason focus. Purpose. A pointed, patient rage, a purifying fire that consumed and comforted him, distilling his being into deadly _intent_.

Jason had died in an orange blaze of fire. He had died beaten black and blue and broken and bloody. He had died betrayed, and abandoned, and alone. Jason had died, and that should have been the end of it. Robin should have died with Jason.

_Robin should have died with Jason._

But Jason was back, and so was fucking Robin. Timothy fucking Drake. Jason’s death hadn’t mattered, to him. Hadn’t mattered to Bruce or Dickface or any of them. _Jason_ hadn’t mattered. And now there was a new Robin, flying around town like he wasn’t wrapped in a dead boy’s stolen shroud. Dancing on the edge of rooftops like he didn’t know he could fall.

That had to be why Jason had returned. _Someone_ needed to introduce the new kid to gravity. Clip his wings, give him a little push. Robin should have died with Jason. So it was Jason’s job to set that right, and he burned with a righteous green fervor at the task, a hotter flame than even the explosion that had ripped his body to shreds.

Robin would die. Jason would kill him. Jason would destroy Robin so thoroughly, raze his ashes to the ground, salt the fields with his tears and his bones so that nothing could grow again. No more Robins. No more pale imitations creeping out of mansions and concrete. No more colorful corpses crawling out of graves like undead daisies.

It wouldn’t be enough. Jason wasn’t stupid, no matter what Talia or Ra’s or Bruce or Dick or anyone might think. He’d read _Hamlet_. He’d read _The Count of Monte Cristo_ and _Wuthering Heights._ More than that, he’d seen too many kids die in the street, gasping for air with punctured lungs, caught up in so much revenge for their sisters and brothers who’d died just the same way, caught up in the gangs and the endless escalation of a head for an eye and never getting any satisfaction from the blood that ran into the gutters and washed out into the river with the rest of Gotham’s toxic _shit_.

Jason _knew_ the price of revenge. The toll paid in blood and ripped off pieces of your soul for an ultimately hollow prize. But he was not Edmond Dantès. He was not Hamlet, or Miss Havisham, or Heathcliff. He was not a kid caught up in dreams of power and justice.

Jason _knew_ he would destroy himself, destroying Robin. He would break everything good about what he once was—at least the bits not already shattered by the Bat and the Joker and the Pit and cesspool that was Gotham. _Robin gives me magic._

He would tear that magic away. Not just from Robin, but from _Jason_. He didn’t care. He deserved it. He’d long since suffocated his innocence, long enough since that he hadn’t even felt a fleeting flutter of it as he hacked off seven gang lieutenants’ heads and stuffed them in a duffel bag for show and parade.

It didn’t matter. Robin _would_ die with Jason. And then Jason could die with Robin, for real this time.

And so, Jason waited, and lost himself in the clarity of the navy-blue night, soft city noises, the view of the cracked-open window and empty bed, framed in black and all washed green through the lens of his rifle scope.

Jason loved his scope. It was top of the line: second focal place reticle design with a powerful telescopic lens; ED glass; a .250 MOA click value; an integrated power throw lever; night sights; the works. The scope alone had probably cost around three grand, and that was on top of the rifle itself, a beautiful SAKO TRG 42—not the fanciest gun out there, but a marvel of Finnish engineering and light enough to make up for the weight of the scope. All told, Jason was probably aiming about ten grand worth of gun towards the Drake's window. Plus the directional mic—he was too paranoid about being caught this early in the game to bug the birdie’s room—and the veritable armory he was decked out in. No iconic red helmet tonight; it was too flashy for this stakeout. So he was wearing a replacement helmet instead, black, and one that left his eyes free for the scope but still had just as much tech and all the filters built in. So maybe fifty, sixty grand of equipment, all told. _Thank you, Al Ghul money_.

Talia had been happy to outfit him with whatever gear his heart desired, on two conditions: one, he got rid of the Drake boy; and two, he didn’t kill Bruce. Well, neither of them were explicit conditions, but Jason could read between the lines. She hated Timothy Drake—an easy hatred to share—and she was obsessed with reuniting with her dear “Beloved”—a less understandable goal. Jason had no desire to crawl back to the man.

 _Punish_ him, yes. _Reconcile?_ Never.

Ugh. Jason rolled his eyes and gagged beneath his mask. He wasn’t ever going to understand Talia’s obsession with Bruce. Like, _sure_ , he was currently building up an entire criminal empire and stalking the man’s new pet project solely for the sake of a long and convoluted revenge plot against him, but it wasn’t the same at all. _Jason_ didn’t expect Bruce to love him at the end of this. Talia was an idiot for thinking that this could end in anything other than hatred and pain all around.

Everything ended that way, with Bats.

No, Jason was smarter than that. He just wanted Bruce to hurt. He wanted him to hurt bad enough that the agony of Jason’s own torture and death would be preferable to the hell he was stuck in.

And he would start with Timothy Drake.

Speaking of, here came the little birdie, pulling up to the curb in his civilian motorcycle and parking.

His _replacement_.

And damn if that didn’t hurt, the knowledge he’d been swapped out for a new and improved model, like an action figure or an upgraded character in a video game. Jason swallowed against the surge of green rage that screamed at him to tear the imposter limb from limb. He couldn’t do that. Not yet. He had a plan. He had a _metaphor._

Bruce was about to learn what happened when you didn’t take care of your toys.

So Jason banked the Pit to mere fury, and watched the Replacement as he limped to fire escape and hauled himself up to the window. Incompetent little shit had been injured. _And where was Bruce?_ He really did take such bad care of his Robins.

Jason would be doing him a favor, showing him just how bad.

The Replacement shimmied through his window—stupid to do that in civvies—and huffed as he collapsed on the bed, the sound crackling in Jason’s ear as the mic did its job.

The Replacement groaned, then flopped half his body over the edge of the bed, grabbed something from underneath it.

Jason watched as the kid pulled out a large orange bag, pretty easily recognizable as the type that EMTs carried around—lots of pockets, crazy organized, stuffed with, like, premium first aid shit.

Now _that_ was interesting: _why was the kid patching himself up?_ Did Alfred not exist anymore? That was a stupid thought, even if Jason hadn’t heard Agent A checking in over the comms scarcely an hour ago. Alfred couldn’t stop existing. He was immortal and unchanging and would never die or leave or be anything less than _Alfred._

But the evidence spoke otherwise: Timothy Drake was here, _after_ he’d reported back to the cave, all alone and spreading an absorbent pad across his comforter to soak up the blood before it stained the sheets. Alfred wouldn’t have allowed that to stand. _So what exactly was going on here?_

Jason winced in sympathy as the kid stripped out of his sweats until he was dressed in nothing but a thin pair of boxer briefs against the cold November chill that was seeping in from the _still-open_ window. The kid was torn up to all hell: layers upon layers of bruises up his ribs and a serious case of road rash across both forearms and the outside of his left thigh. He’d somehow managed to avoid any injury to his face, but the rest of him was not pretty.

A lot of those were new injuries, but Jason hadn’t heard anything about Robin getting hurt over the comms.

The kid had an obvious _routine_ going. Squeeze bottles of sterilized water to clean out his wounds, antiseptic cream, gauze and butterfly bandages for the more shallow cuts that looked recent, stitches for what looked like older injuries, to replace the ones he’d obviously popped on patrol.

He hissed as he brushed the gravel out of his injuries, and bit his knuckles to keep from screaming as he contorted his bruised torso to stitch closed a cut on his side.

Finally he finished, but he didn’t go to sleep or even clean up the bloody first aid materials. Instead, he pulled out a computer and stared intently at the screen, working on something.

As he worked, Replacement toyed with his discarded needle, seemingly unaware of what he was doing as it poked in and out of his thigh, in and out. Thin pinpricks of blood bubbling up to the surface and wiped away.

He didn’t stop until dawn. Then he squinted at the sun out the window and drew the blackout curtains closed.

Jason stayed on his rooftop, listening intently as Replacement fell back on his bed. There was no further noise, no clacking of keys or sound of clean-up efforts, and Jason was about to call it a night and go when soft hitches of breath caught his attention.

The Replacement was crying.

He sobbed almost silently, only the irregular shaking of his breath giving him away. Or maybe he was just shivering against the cold. Even when he’d closed the curtains, the stupid kid _still_ hadn’t closed the window or even put on fucking PJs.

Either way, it took another half an hour before his Replacement finally stuttered off into what sounded like actual sleep breathing.

Jason packed up slowly, methodically, flexing his numb limbs to bring some sort of life back into them. He used the time to think. His original plan wouldn’t work, not with this new information.

He’d thought that Bruce and Dickface and the rest of them would be all over the baby bird, especially after the last one—the girl—had bit the dust. Drake's father hadn’t died that long ago, either. But they didn’t even care enough to know the kid was injured, living alone in Bludhaven, had dropped out of school, and was crying himself to sleep at 7:00am.

The kid was going to die at this rate, whether or not Jason had anything to do with it. Apparently dead Robins were just a _thing_ , now, and Bruce didn’t give a shit whether they lived or died.

There was something almost comforting about that, that Jason’s wasn’t the only life that didn’t matter.

There was something fucking infuriating about that, that Jason’s wasn’t the only life that didn’t matter.

 _Do better, Bruce_.

His plan had depended on people caring about Timothy Drake, parents rich and powerful enough to cause _problems_ for Brucie Wayne, parents who would would at the very least hire someone to dig into the details. But then Jack Drake had died, the stepmom had been committed, and this new uncle obviously wasn’t doing any kind of parenting. His plan depended on a Bruce so wracked with guilt at the death of _yet another_ Robin that he would slip up enough for Jason to take advantage of the cracks.

But it was pretty fucking obvious that no one was looking out for the kid. Not if he was stitching himself up in his room, crying alone in the cold, and so used to it that he had it down to a _routine_.

Well, okay, then. Jason would just have to adapt. _Improvisation_ , that was his speciality. Hmm… _yeah_. That might work. He wouldn’t even have to modify the plan too much.

If those fucks didn’t care about their baby bird now, Jason would just have to _make_ them care. And he had a few ideas on just how to do that.

Timothy might get a little broken in the process, but what was a little kidnapping and torture between friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this ended up being just 3k words of Jason thinking, but whatever. I have never claimed to be concise. Not once in my life.


	2. Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter TW for school shootings, death, suicide & suicidal ideation (I know I gave a general tw for suicide, but this chapter is particularly bad—a major character commits suicide in a dream sequence). General TWs still apply.

Tim rubbed his temples and tried to make the screen in front of him make sense. Mission report. Standard protocol. It should have been easy.

It wasn’t easy. Tim missed Kon. It was stupid; Kon was in Kansas. He needed time. Tim should be respecting that. He shouldn’t be yearning for something that was never his to begin with. Bad Tim.

He wrapped his hands around his mug of hot chocolate. It had gone cold. That was sad, but Tim couldn’t be bothered to get up to microwave it. It wasn’t like it was Alfred hot chocolate, anyway. He would have treated Alfred hot chocolate with more respect.

Tim groaned and thunked his head down on the desk. Frick, he missed Kon. And Bart, but he had seen Bart a few hours ago, before he went home for the week. He hadn’t seen Kon in _over a month._

Because Kon didn’t want to see him. Tim knew _,_ he _knew,_ that Kon didn’t hate him, that his request for Tim to stay away had more to do with the guilt of how badly he’d hurt him when he was brainwashed. But _Tim’s stupid brain_ kept insisting that Kon didn’t like him anymore, that he didn’t want to be friends, that he was angry and Tim rightfully disgusted him. Which didn’t even make sense. _Tim_ was the one who’d been hurt; if anyone was going to be angry, it should be Tim.

And Tim wasn’t even a little bit angry. He was just sad. He wanted his friend back. How long did it take to get over some brainwashing, anyway?

Maybe he should call Bart. Or Cassie. He needed someone to pull him out of his head. Everyone had gone home except for Gar, Vic, and Raven, and Tim didn’t feel right pulling them back in just to deal with his bullshit. Raven was sleeping, and not great for pulling you out of depression funk anyway. And Beast Boy and Cyborg were great, but, damn, it was impossible not to feel like a third wheel if you were hanging out with them alone.

So Tim just sat in front of his computer. Sad. Pitiful.

Slightly less pitiful than sitting in front of his computer alone in his apartment. Slightly.

He knew he had to go back to Gotham—well, Bludhaven—at some point, but God, he really didn’t want to. He’d been living in San Francisco for almost three weeks now, and it was nice. Good. The Tower was safe. There were always people around. And yeah, Tim locked himself in his room a lot, but it was nice to know that people were _there._ Even during the schoolweek, when Bart and Cassie and Mia (and Kon, because Kon _would_ come back) were gone, there were still people _living_ there. It was odd, uncomfortable, so different from anywhere he’d ever lived before, but Tim thought he liked it.

Plus, he didn’t have to go to school any more. Tim didn’t think he was up to faking being a normal kid. It just took so. much.energy. School was too easy, too boring, and it took more effort than he had in his body to force his brain to focus on the work. And trying to socialize with normal kids on top of that? Hell.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was missing out on anything. He was smart, he could teach himself anything he needed to know, and he’d never really gone to school even when he was enrolled anyway.

He’d missed _months_ of school his Freshman year back at Gotham Heights, between two training trips to Paris, healing from the disaster that was John-Paul, and getting fricking _ebola_. He should have been kicked out of Brentwood for the sheer amount of absences he had—only a delicate application of both Wayne and Drake money had prevented that, before the Drake money ran out. Then with moving back and forth to Keystone, the cataclysm, and No Man’s Land, he hadn’t really had the opportunity to go. The final straw had been Darla, though. The mobsters breaking into Greaves and _shooting Darla in his arms._

He still had nightmares about that. That was a lie. It was only one nightmare. One of the many in his ever-cycling roster of fun sleep companions. This one probably visited once a week or so. It would probably come more often if he let himself sleep every night. But if he forced himself to stay awake until he passed out from sheer exhaustion, sometimes the nightmares didn’t come at all and he could get a few blissful hours of blackness.

This particular nightmare started as it had in reality. The suddenly empty high school hallway. Just him, Darla, and Tyrone. Thinly veiled panic all around him while Tim desperately tried to keep control, projecting a Robin-like calm all around him.

“I’m staying with you, Tim. I know I’ll be safe with you.” Darla’s last words.

The impact of the bullet as she stumbled forward, Darla gasping for breath as the blood pooled around her. Fifteen chest compressions, two breaths. Fifteen compressions, two breaths. Fifteen compressions.

Tyrone’s voice, distant, distorted. “Tim? Tim, I don’t know what to do.” 

Here was where the dream diverged from reality. In reality, he’d evacuated to the nurse’s office with Tyrone and Darla’s limp body. He’d kept doing compressions until Batman got there. Darla had died in the hospital. She’d never woken up.

In the dream, he cracked her ribs. That might have happened in real life, too. But in the dream, her ribs splintered under his fingers, the shards punctured her lungs. Her lungs filled with blood, and she went cold and still. Another gunshot. Tyrone was down. Dead. Jimmy’s corpse was there, bled out from the wound in his thigh, even though Jimmy had safely evacuated to the gym by that point.

Fifteen chest compressions. Two breaths.

Backup wasn’t coming.

Fifteen compressions.

One breath, inhale—

Darla’s eyes opened.

“You promised I’d be safe with you. Why did you kill me, Tim? Why did you let me die?” Darla wasn’t ever angry. Only confused and disappointed.

 _Why did you let me die?_ The question echoed around him, Tyrone and Jimmy joining in. They hadn’t died. Not in real life, but he never knew that in his dream. Then Steph, who _was_ dead in real life. His mom, his dad. Dad had been on the roster even before he actually died, but now his bullet wounds matched the ones that had actually killed him. Donna was there. Omen. Jason. Everyone he’d ever failed.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t act. He was holding a gun. He was Evil Future Tim, holding the gun that had killed Thomas and Martha Wayne. He had shot Thomas and Martha Wayne. Except Thomas and Martha Wayne were Tim’s parents? In the way of dream-logic, Martha Wayne was Janet Drake and Thomas Wayne was Jack Drake. And Tim was holding the gun. He had killed them. He had killed all of them.

Then Bruce was there. Bruce was there, and he felt a surge of hope. _Every time_ , he felt a surge of hope. Because Bruce would fix it, and Tim was an idiot.

Dream-Bruce curled his hand around Tim’s, pried the gun away with gentle fingers, crouched down in front of him, pushed the cowl down to meet his eyes. “Why did you kill me, Tim?” His voice was soft in a way Batman’s never could be. “Why did you let me die?”

Bruce turned the up gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

And Tim was just there, alive, covered in brain matter and blood. The scent of linoleum and lockers and stale schoolhouse air, a gun in his lap. He wrapped his hand around the gun, raised his arm, and…

Then—and _only_ then— _finally_ , Tim could wake up.

So, yeah. Tim didn’t miss going to school.

Screw this. He obviously wasn’t getting the report done tonight. Tim forced himself up and away from the computer. Walked just to walk.

The Tower was quiet. He found himself on the top floor, looking out over the Bay. Warm lights against the nothing of the ocean. There were people out there, making the lights. There were people who weren’t dead.

“Hey, Tim.”

Tim startled. He wasn’t proud of it. He was a _bat._ He should be un-sneak-up-uponable. He was about to roll his eyes, tell off whatever teammate had interrupted his thoughts when he caught a glance of red in the window’s reflection.

“You’re—you’re Red Hood.” Tim turned around, reaching for his bo staff. He held it at the ready, not attacking yet. Hood didn’t have any weapons drawn, though he was doing a very good job of…looming.

“Surprised?” Even through the voice filters, Hood’s voice was dry and mocking.

“We’re a bit far from your usual stomping grounds.” Red Hood was a _Gotham_ crime lord. He’d been seen in Bludhaven a few times, was rumored to have international backing, but he generally stuck to a very specific radius around Crime Alley. “How did you get in the Tower?” And _why_? Tim—Robin—was the obvious answer, the connection to Gotham, but even that didn’t make sense. Tim had never even fought the Red Hood before.

Red Hood ignored the question. “Little Timmy Drake. Timothy Jackson Drake. Robin number three. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Who?” Tim wrapped Robin around him, hoping to still the frantic beating of his heart. He discretely pressed the panic button built into his suit.

“Don’t play coy, Replacement. It doesn’t suit you.”

“What?”

A loud sigh. “It doesn’t matter. You’re coming with me. The hard way.”

“Aren’t you supposed to give me a choice?”

“Would you take the easy way?”

“Depends. What do you want?”

Hood huffed. “Mmm, no. You don’t get to know that. I’m not an easy kind of girl, anyway.” He reached for his belt.

“Oh, so you like it hard?”

That was definitely an amused snort. “You’re stalling, Replacement.” He snapped out a bo staff, a perfect complement to Tim’s. “If you’re waiting for reinforcements, they’re not coming. Tower’s on lockdown. No signals in or out.”

An icy chill roiled down Tim’s spine, because everything pointed to Hood telling the truth. That panic button should have gone directly to the Watchtower. Someone from the Justice League should have zeta’d in by now. That wouldn’t stop the signal from reaching people inside the Tower, though. “What have you done to my team?”

“Aw, the little birdie’s protective. That’s cute.”

_“What. have you done. to my team.”_

A dark chuckle. “Relax, Replacement. They’ll wake up. You, on the other hand…” He pointed the staff at Tim.

“Was that supposed to be intimidating…?”

A tilt of the helmet. A twirl of the staff to rest across his shoulders. “You still want to do this the easy way?”

Tim didn’t answer. He just _moved._ Feint to the left, and swing _up_.

Impossibly fast for someone so large and encumbered, Red Hood dodged the blow. But Tim was ready, coming in with a kick to the kidneys, or what _would_ have been a kick to the kidneys if Hood hadn’t shifted to take the blow harmlessly against his armored side.

Tim rejoined with a strike to the head, but was quickly pushed back in a flurry of blows. He got in a few good hits, but Hood was relentless and much more heavily armored than Tim. And Tim was tiring fast. Time to change strategies.

He released a smoke pellet and dashed to the side. With unerring aim, a knife of some kind crashed into his shoulder, causing him to stumble. Then again. They stuck in his flesh through his armor.

Tim scrambled to his feet and threw himself down the hall and over the railing of the stairwell. He plummeted, gravity doing its job, before sending a quick grappling hook to the railing and swinging onto the seventh floor. He needed to get to a computer terminal. Signal for backup.

Tim sprinted through the corridors, head spinning. _What was even going on? Why was Hood here?_ Nothing made sense.

It wasn’t until he crashed into a terminal, bleeding, that he realized Hood was being awfully slow to follow him.

No time to worry about that. It took him three frantic tries to log onto the computer, because the letters kept shifting around. Wait. The letters weren’t supposed to move…

“Aw, frick.” He’d been poisoned.

“You can use big-boy words, you know. It’s just us here. I promise I won’t tell Daddy Bats.”

Tim whirled, vision blacking out, and buckled to his knees. _No. No no no no no._ It hadn’t even been a real fight! Tim desperately clung to consciousness, numb fingers refusing to obey his orders. His staff rolled to the floor.

“It’s…Agent A you have to worry about. Swearing.” Tim could have said that better. If only the lights would stop blinking at him.

The last thing he was aware of was a startled burst of laughter before the darkness took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim. My baby. You are not ok. You need therapy. And a hug. 
> 
> The school shooting storyline is from Robin Vol 2 #129, part of the War Games arc that ends with Stephanie dying. The gang war that Steph accidentally started has been escalating, and the Odessa Mob and The Ventriloquist and Scarface's gang were after Tim’s friend/potential love interest Darla because her father was a crime lord. They attack the school, shoot at least one student (Jimmy, a friend of Tim’s), and Tim basically is like, fuck my civilian identity, and goes full Die Hard trying to save Darla and his other friends (all while wearing a _pastel yellow polo_ and _cargo shorts_ ). He almost saves everyone, but then Darla gets shot in the back while she’s in Tim arms. He tries to do CPR as she’s bleeding out, and she dies in the hospital. This is what prompts Tim to go back to being Robin.
> 
> Donna Troy (Troia/the first Wonder Girl) and Omen were members of the Titans who died in a Titans/Young Justice team-up, mainly because of a YJ mistake. YJ (as headed by Tim & Cassie) disbanded after this. (Titans/Young Justice: Graduation Day #3)
> 
> Evil Future Tim is from an arc where the Teen Titans went to a future where they were all basically murderous dictators. Tim was Batman, but with guns, and his main weapon was _*the actual gun that killed Thomas and Martha Wayne*_ (Teen Titans Vol 3 #19). How did you even _find_ that, Future Evil Tim??? If you haven’t already read it, [Compression](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738820/chapters/51860119) (the second story in CalamityJim’s [Liminal Spaces](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1414078) series) is just a fantastic Tim-centric batfam adventure angst/whump with lots of love and dimension & time travel shenanigans, and is one of my favorite stories on this site.


	3. Barbara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the chapters I had mostly written. So updates will be slower from now on. On the plus side, I have the whole thing outlined!

“I’m a goddamn adult, Bruce,” Barbara snapped, spinning her wheelchair around from the Batcomputer so that she could glare at the man head-on. “With a full-time job and my own vigilante team. I am _not_ your personal tech wizard, and you do not treat me as such.”

“I am not—”

“Oh no, B. That wasn’t a suggestion you could argue against. You. Do not treat. Me. Like your personal computer valet. End of sentence.”

“That’s hardly-”

“No.”

Bruce huffed like the spoiled man-child he was. “You’re using _my_ equipment, in _my_ cave, and—”

“Whose ridiculous plan was it that got my entire base of operations blown up?”

“That was hardly my fault.”

“Whose plan.”

“If Spoiler hadn’t—”

“Tread. Very. Carefully. Bruce. Because if you were about to blame a dead teenager for _your_ fuck-up, a dead _child_ who I mentored and who was _tortured_ until she died because of your inability to communicate in any kind of meaningful way, you better rephrase that sentence.”

“Hrng.”

“Mm. That’s what I thought.” Barbara closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “I’m moving to Metropolis.”

“What?”

She fixed him with a look. “There’s nothing here for me, Bruce. My base is gone, Steph is gone, Cass is gone. My Birds can fly wherever. I can do my business from anywhere with a solid internet connection. You got Tim and Cass out of the city for a reason. Well, I need a break too. I can’t be here right now. It’s too painful. So I’m going.”

A long, drawn-out silence, punctuated by a single nod. “If that’s what you feel is best.”

“It is.”

“Hm.” A beat. “ _Metropolis_?”

“Maybe I want to pay Luthor a visit.”

“Hn.”

That was his amused grunt, so Babs figured she was probably in the clear.

“The matter we were discussing…”

“Still. Not. Your. Tech-Monkey.”

“Of course not, but Martian Manhunter _is_ a member of the Justice League, and he’s been missing for over a week now. You have been known to freelance for the Justice League.”

Babs sighed. “Isn’t Vic all over it? I don’t know what you expect _me_ to find if he hasn’t found anything. The man literally has the entirety of the internet in his brain.”

“You know as well as I that it’s a matter of sifting through all that information. And Vic has been occupied recently with matters involving the Teen Titans.”

“Okay. This is still not in my job description. I have so many commit—”

An incoming call from the JLA, on the emergency line. Babs immediately shut up.

Barbara raised an eyebrow at Bruce, and he nodded: the argument was tabled for now. She pressed on a domino and Bruce ducked into a cowl before Barbara spun back around and clicked the video feed open—not everyone on the League knew their identities.

Wonder Woman’s face popped up on the screen. The secrecy hadn’t been necessary then, but better safe than sorry. “Oracle, hello. Batman.” Her greeting was far less enthusiastic than it usually was.

“Diana,” Bruce growled. “Have you found him.”

Diana’s face was grim, an obvious _no._ “I’m so sorry, Bruce.” Her tone was much more sympathetic than the situation warranted. It wasn’t like J’onn and B were particularly close. “We only just learned he was missing.”

Something wasn’t adding up. Bruce’s shoulders did that thing that they did when he was frowning his ‘Confused and Worried Batglare(tm)’ under the cowl. He straightened up to stare at the screen. “Report.”

Diana nodded, brisk. “At 00:41 last night, Titans Tower went into electronic lockdown. Raven, Beast Boy, and Cyborg were incapacitated. They were transferred to the Tower medbay by an unknown assailant and set on IV sedatives. They were discovered fifteen minutes ago when Speedy dropped by the Tower to pick up school supplies. All three are groggy, but apparently unharmed.”

Barbara's breath caught in her throat. Robin was supposed to be at the Tower now. Diana hadn’t mentioned Robin. If Tim was okay, she would have lead with that. So Tim was hurt, or missing, or… _no._ Barbara didn’t think she could take another dead child. _Missing,_ Diana had said.

Bruce was already suiting up, ignoring the screen. Barbara transferred the audio feed to the comm in his cowl and popped her own headset on, nodding at Diana to continue. She had a feeling she would be playing Oracle for a _while_ tonight.

“Speedy radioed the situation in to the Watchtower, and Aquaman, Superman, and Zatanna responded to the scene. Green Arrow and Black Canary are en route. Cyborg is currently working on rebooting the system, which may be difficult given the extent of the…physical damage. Robin is MIA, presumed captured. His uniform and weapons were found in the medbay, and…there was a message.”

She didn’t elaborate. Diana of Themyscira, _Wonder Woman,_ hesitated to say whatever it was out loud. This was bad.

Batman had gone nonverbal, so it was up to Barbara to prompt, “A message?”

Diana’s lips tightened on the screen, but she was not one to mince words. “‘Dead Robin #3.’ Written in blood on the wall of the common room.”

Barbara’s whole being went icy cold. _Not again. No. Please, God, no_.

Silence.

Dead silence.

“Bruce,” Diana began, “we have no evidence that—”

Batman was gone. Babs shook her head to let Diana know it was useless. “He should be arriving at the Watchtower via zeta any second now.”

Diana nodded solemnly. “Yes, I expected as—” She cocked her head, listening. “He is here now.” A pause, Diana’s attention still elsewhere. “And he’s gone. Presumably to the Tower.”

Barbara nodded, already bringing up screenloads of tracker data. Bruce’s tracker was indeed in San Francisco. “Copy.”

“I trust Batman will be taking the lead on this, but let us know what we can do on our end. An attack on the Tower is a matter that affects the whole League.”

A grunt in her ear, the first sign of communication from Batman since he’d demanded the report.

“Thank you, Diana,” Barbara translated. “We will. Oracle out.”

She shut off the video link and reported to Batman without any prompting. She wasn’t his personal tech wizard, but she wasn’t _heartless_. She’d be on this case until they got Robin back, alive and well. Because they would get him back. Anything else was unacceptable. Not after Jason. Not after Steph.

Not that it had been acceptable for either one of them.

She couldn’t do this again.

What she had to report wasn’t great. “Robin’s trackers are all pinging inside Titans Tower, except the ones in various suits here and in Bludhaven. I’m going to need to coordinate with Vic to help recover what we can from the Tower’s security system—I might need you to physically get me into the system over there. I’m going over security feeds from the surrounding area, and I’ve set up alerts to track any credible mentions of Robin on the web. You need to loop in Nightwing and Batgirl; it might take me a bit, but I’ll open a line of contact to each of them.”

“No.”

Because nothing was ever easy with this man, was it? “An entire word, B? For me? You shouldn’t have.” She made an attempt to reign in the sass. It was a defense mechanism, not helpful right now. “Yes, we are looping them in. That’s not optional. Their— _Robin_ is missing.”

“Communications at this point would jeopardize their undercover work and needlessly endanger them, while we do not yet have sufficient intelligence to suggest that their knowing about this event would be at all helpful.”

Deep breath, Babs. “Okay.” She kept her voice calm. “ _I_ will contact Nightwing and Batgirl, taking _reasonable precautions_ , while you investigate the Tower.”

“Do _not_ contact either—”

“I don’t take orders from you, B,” Barbara snapped. “You can either waste time arguing with me, or you can investigate.”

Batman chose to investigate. Smart man.

“I’ll loop in Agent A as well.”

“Hn.”

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

The more they investigated, the worse it got. The _Red Hood_ had broken into Titan’s Tower. A Gotham crime lord, up and coming. He’d taken advantage of the instability after the last gang war to muscle in on Black Mask’s territory. Made his debut with a duffle bag of severed heads.

It made no sense. It was so far outside of his MO that Babs started running image recognition programs on security feeds from Gotham last night, on the chance that this was a random imposter. This kind of crime had “masked villain” written all over it, and Hood? Hood wasn’t really a mask.

Oh, he had the helmet that covered his face. But other than that? No gimmicks, no powers, no known obsessions. The severed heads thing was bad, yes, but since then his violence had mainly stayed at acceptable levels, aimed solely at sexual predators, domestic abusers, and people who took advantage of kids in one way or another. His rules were clear, and he enforced them regularly. Not exactly masked-villain behavior. Just, normal crime-lord behavior.

Honestly, with everything that had been going on, Red Hood been so low on the priority list that Babs hadn’t really dug into his whole deal yet.

So why the bizarre escalation?

The footage from Tim’s domino was the most easily recovered, and Babs went through it first. It showed a normal night, Tim staring at a computer screen for fifteen minutes without moving—probably sleep deprivation, because the twerp didn’t know how to take care of himself—before he pushed himself up to wander the halls. No alarms, no warning signs, no hint of an intruder until suddenly one was behind him.

He knew Tim’s name. He knew Tim was the third Robin. It wasn’t too much of a leap from that to figure that he knew all of their identities, that he knew more about the Bats than anyone outside the family ever should.

And he was confident. He acted like he had all the time in the world, and he was _right._ It had been nearly thirteen hours between when Tim was attacked and when they’d discovered the breach. They could be anywhere by now.

It was hard to pick out anything about him through the voice modulators—maybe a hint of a Gotham accent? A sardonic sense of humor? He enjoyed quipping back and forth with Robin, but then again, most villains enjoyed their quips.

No powers that she could tell from the feed, but he was very, very good. He also had almost a foot and probably seventy pounds on Robin, plus heavy-duty body armor and whatever was inside his helmet. The fight had been stacked against Tim from the beginning, even before whatever poison that had hit Tim came into effect.

And it was clear something had gotten into him—probably when he stumbled before jumping down the stairwell. Babs asked B to check the suit for any tears or residue. Tim was shaky and unsteady as he fled to a computer terminal, then collapsed with a half-hearted quip about Agent A and swearing.

Red Hood laughed at that, a full-body thing. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to piss of Alfie, would we?” He picked Tim’s limp body up and hoisted him over his shoulder.

Barbara had to pause the video there. She’d known—she’d _known_ already, then, that the Red Hood likely knew at least Batman and Nightwing’s identities. But _Alfred_? Calling him Alfie? That implied a level of intimate familiarity with their lives that Babs was not at all comfortable with.

Tim didn’t move as Red Hood hauled him up to the medbay. The angle was bad—just a bouncing image of the back of Red Hood’s jacket—but she heard him humming tunelessly as he worked. He laid Tim out on a cot and put him in a full set of restraints. Then he disappeared, carting Raven, Beast Boy, and Cyborg into the infirmary one by one. Thankfully, Tim’s head had flopped at a good angle to see them. Red Hood huffed a bit when he set Cyborg down onto a cot, but he showed no other sign of strain from hauling the huge, half-metal man around.

Red Hood hooked all of them—including Robin—up to IV lines, showing an easy familiarity with both medical equipment and the layout of the medbay. He checked their pulses, breathing, and pupils before turning back to Robin. More care than most villains showed.

Still humming, he cut off Robin’s uniform with a sharp-looking knife. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking behind that faceless red helmet. Jesus _fuck_ , please don’t let him be a perv.

He folded the uniform neatly, and set it to the side. Then he ripped off the domino in a decisive _yank._ Barbara winced in sympathy—that _had_ to have taken chunks of skin with it—but Tim didn’t make a sound. Hood placed it neatly on top of the uniform, and Barbara was treated to a lovely view of the medbay ceiling for the next twelve and a half hours of recording. She sped through it, hoping to hear _something_ useful, but the most that she got was Red Hood shuffling around the infirmary for a few minutes, then silence for almost forty minutes, then the sounds of restraints being undone and a soft grunt as—presumably—Red Hood came back for Tim and carted him away.

Babs would bet her chair that he’d spent those forty minutes leaving his bloody message and then _thoroughly_ trashing all the electronics in the base. Vic and Batman were on the ground, trying to piece what they could back together, but it was slow going. It wasn’t on Tim’s cowl footage, but B was pretty sure some of the damage was from a _rocket launcher._

Maybe a team effort, but Babs was inclined to think this was a solo operation. It was smooth, professional, and almost invisible. It would have taken one person that full forty minutes to wreak as much damage as there was, and if there had been more players, they would have been in and out even more quickly. As it was, it looked like the whole thing had been done—in and out—in just under an hour.

Babs left the Tower’s records to Vic and B, and turned her attention to the backups in the Watchtower. They wouldn’t have caught anything after Hood destroyed the physical hardware, but before that? The records should have backed themselves up every five minutes.

And so they did. Working backwards, Babs was able to see exactly how Red Hood had waltzed in through the front doors, headed immediately to the nearest command terminal, and flicked through the security footage there. He neatly disabled all the alarms and set up a Faraday cage around the Tower to stop any transmissions from going in or out—it was a defense measure already built into the Tower. Tellingly, he _didn’t_ put the Tower in full lockdown, meaning no one could get in or out, an action which would have sent an alert to the Watchtower. He turned off the cameras—but made sure their lights stayed on—and from then on everything was blank.

Barbara had a _really_ bad feeling about this. He knew too much, was too familiar with the tech and security protocols. It wasn’t even like he was a genius hacker—he hadn’t done any actual hacking. Just used someone else’s security codes and told the system to do what it was built to do, quickly, efficiently, and with a minimum of fuss.

“B,” she said, “we have a mole.”

“Agreed,” came the terse response. “It’s too clean. Can you check—”

“The security logs? On it. Okay, it looks like the door codes and the computer security logon were both keyed to— _fuck_.” She stared at the screen, refusing to believe it.

“Oracle?”

Barbara swallowed. “Nightwing. They were both keyed to Nightwing. His root access codes. B, those are locked up _tight._ Even other members of the League wouldn’t be able to…”

“I know.” Silence. “Have you contacted Nightwing yet?”

“I sent him a message earlier letting him know he needs to check in, and it’s urgent. I can force through a call to him, but it might blow his cover.”

“Do it.”

Barbara did.

* * *

“Hey, B?”

“Hng.”

“Did you know Robin’s uncle is entirely fabricated, and is in fact an actor named Richard Beren?”

“Hn.”

“Oh, well, thanks for sharing that with the class.” Barbara was going on thirty hours without sleep, and was _not_ in the mood for these games. “I guess that explains why I can see your digital fingerprints across some of this work.”

Broody silence.

“You helped Robin fabricate a fake uncle?” Nightwing’s incredulous voice broke through the comms.

“Robin did the bulk of the work without my intervention. When I uncovered his scheme, I simply helped him shore it up a little.”

“That’s messed up, B.”

Defensive broody silence.

“He’s been living alone.” Barbara tried to bring them back on topic. “All sorts of things could have happened that we don’t know about.”

“No, he hasn’t! I thought he was staying with—isn’t he staying with Batgirl?”

“Batgirl is currently on an undercover operation, and would not be able to live with Robin without risking compromising both of their civilian identities.”

“Oh, now we’re worried about compromising identities to the _fake uncle_?” Nightwing was _pissed_. “I thought part of the whole deal with Robin and Batgirl coming to Bludhaven after—after Spoiler, was that they would be removed from the action and _have a support system_.”

“Hn.”

“Oh, don’t take that tone of grunt with me, B. If I’d known you were just going to throw him all alone into the deep end, I might not have taken this most recent op. He’s a _kid_. A _literal child_. He shouldn’t be living all on his own when he’s pissing off supervillains every day. No, scratch that. He shouldn’t be living on his own _period_.”

“He was practically living on his own for much of his earlier tenure as Robin, and for many years well before that. All told, there were only a few months when Robin actually cohabited with his parents or others.”

A long sigh. “That’s really not any better, B.”

Barbara wisely pretended she had not been listening and went back to digging through the records. But she made a mental note: they’d need to hold Tim close when they got him home. Let him know he was loved.

* * *

Two days later and they had nothing to show for it. The blood on the wall was Tim’s. There had been residue of the sedative on Robin’s uniform, and in his blood, but it told them nothing. A common compound, fast-acting, easily available to anyone with black-market connections.

The Red Hood was lying low. No one had seen him since the attack on the Tower, and not for lack of trying. The bats were tearing through his empire, dismantling it bit by bit. Or, Batman and Nightwing were. And the more they dug, the flimsier it seemed. No one knew who Red Hood was. No one knew what he looked like. No one knew where he was, or where he’d come from. No one knew any long-term goals. The revenue stream made no sense. They had nothing.

It was becoming increasingly clear that the “Red Hood” had been a front. A temporary identity used to pursue a more long-term objective. And that objective was Robin.

“What if it’s Deathstroke?” Barbara sat slumped over a mug of tea at the kitchen table.

“It’s not Deathstroke.” Dick was similarly slumped over his own mug of some sugary monstrosity that couldn’t be rightly called a _drink_.

“ _Who else_ could have possibly accessed your codes?”

“I don’t know!” Dick exploded back from the table to perch on the counter. “I don’t fucking know, Babs. _Yes,_ I’ve been working with Deathstroke. _For an undercover mission. To bring him down._ I never gave him access to any of my codes! And _yes,_ I have worked for Deathstroke in the past, when he was _blackmailing_ me. But if you and B don’t trust me, _fine_. Deathstroke didn’t do it because he would be screaming it from the rooftops if he did, rubbing it in B’s and my face. And I was with him the whole time that night. Is that enough? I didn’t—I would never—I would _never_ hurt Tim. Not on purpose. I fucked up, okay? I fucked up somehow, somewhere, and now my little brother is _dead_ or being _tortured_ and it’s all my fault, and I don’t even know _how_! Is that what you want to hear? Because that’s all I’ve fucking got. I—I messed up, and now my brother is dead. Again.”

Babs closed her eyes. “Dick.” She was so tired. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, whatever. It’s fine. Sorry.”

“Master Richard, if you would kindly remove your feet from the counter. I understand that you are upset, but that is hardly a reason to track outside germs into the food preparation area.”

Dick swung down. “Sorry, Alfie.” His voice was sullen.

Babs looked hopefully at the old butler. “Any ideas?”

“Not in the last half hour, Miss Gordon. It took a great deal of mental effort to force Master Bruce to sleep.”

“Did you drug him?” Dick asked.

Alfred sniffed. “A rather unseemly suggestion.”

“That wasn’t a denial.”

Alfred ignored him and turned back to Barbara. “I have been wracking my brain for the two days as to who might have such familiarity with myself as exhibited on the tapes, and am coming up entirely blank to anyone outside our household and yours. The Kents, perhaps Ms. Kyle, but this seems entirely antithetical to any of their ways of functioning.”

Babs grimaced in agreement.

“Does _Tim_ have any enemies?” Dick ventured. “Not as Robin. But Tim as Tim.”

“You would know better than me. I couldn’t find anything in the electronic records.”

“I got nothing.” Dick shook his head helplessly. “He was living alone. Why the fuck was he living alone, Babs? He’s sixteen! What the hell made B think, that when he found out Tim had _invented a fake uncle and created a paper trail for and hired an actor to play said uncle_ —what made B think it would be a good idea to _encourage_ Tim to do that?”

Barbara gave him a flat look. “He’s B.”

“Yeah, I guess that explains it. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this family is fucked up.”

Babs very kindly refrained from pointing out that she wasn’t _in_ this family, thank you very much, and she preferred to keep it that way.

Barbara sighed and cradled her head in her hands. “I keep coming back to one thing.”

“Mm?”

“If I didn’t know better, just based on method alone, I’d say it was Bruce.”

Dick raised a skeptical eyebrow. “ _Bruce_?”

“Bruce with guns and a more vocal sense of humor.”

“Hmm. The idea does have some merit, Ms. Gordon.”

“Alfie? You’re in on this?”

Alfred merely shrugged and opened his hands. “The Red Hood has seemingly-impossible intel. He quickly and efficiently targeted points of weakness. He’s an incredibly good fighter. Large, fast, versatile. A flair for the dramatic, a tendency towards secrecy, and a somewhat juvenile sense of humor. Master Bruce to a tee.”

Dick blinked. “I’m sorry, _what_? Bruce doesn’t have a sense of humor, period. Let alone a juvenile one.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “He does not have a sense of humor that he _expresses aloud._ You are talking about a man who regularly frequents Batman conspiracy forums and gets into arguments with his own accounts about whether or not Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

“That’s a contingency plan to discredit the truth, because he’s a paranoid f—”

“A man who bought Superman’s entire _place of employment_ just to annoy the man because he ‘thought it would be fun.’ A man who believed it would be a good idea to design a highly-weaponized super-car that can disguise itself as a _pile of trash_. Who named the insurance policies for Batman-related damages, ‘Dark Knight Returns.’ A man who took great delight in your puns and catchphrases of old, and—although he would never admit it—found immense enjoyment in Master Jason’s frequent wordplay upon the more vulgar connotations of your name.”

Dick looked like he didn’t know whether to smile or cry. “Bruce liked my Bat-puns?”

“Indubitably.”

“What about Wingdings?”

Alfred’s lip twitched. “I daresay you’ll have to ask him, Master Dick.”

“Diplomatic, Alfie.”

“But of course.”

There was a moment of silence.

“God, _Jason_. I should’ve been there for him.”

Alfred’s mouth turned down. “We all have our regrets, Master Dick. We cannot let them keep us from living in the present moment.”

“Except the past keeps repeating. We should’ve been there for Jason, and now he’s dead. We should’ve been there for Stephanie, and now she’s dead. We should’ve been there for Tim, and now—” His voice cracked. “Three out of four, Alfie. I’m the only Robin left standing.”

“Now, now, Master Dick—”

“It’s a copycat,” Barbara breathed.

Both of the other heads in the room whipped towards her.

“What?” asked Dick.

“The past keeps repeating itself. He’s a copycat. The Red Hood. That’s one of the Joker’s old aliases, except we dismissed that as a connection back when he first appeared on the scene because the Red Hood isn’t completely unhinged. He was always methodical and all about order. He had rules, and he stuck to them, and he showed no interest in anything Joker-related. But the Joker killed Jason—the _Red Hood_ killed _Robin_ , and now…”

“The Red Hood will kill Robin again.” Dick finished the thought. “Do you think,” he swallowed, “do you think he’ll try to recreate it? How—how Jason died. In Ethiopia? Or should we be looking into warehouses? Maybe he…God, do you think he tried to contact the Joker?”

“I don’t know. I—yes. We should check all of those out. But it’s a wide net, Dick. I don’t know if…” She shook her head. “Possible connection to the Bats; possible connection to the Joker. Possible connection to Jason, to you, to Tim. I’m on it. Let’s get down to the cave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things that Alfred said Bruce did are all canon. The troll accounts are from Batman Incorporated #6. Buying the Daily Planet is in Superman #168. The trash batmobile is from the 1992 TV series. The Dark Knight Insurance Returns are from The Batman Who Laughs #1.


	4. Jason & Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for actual, legitimate torture this chapter, described graphically. No gore. It starts after the double line break/POV change, and ends at the end of that section.

Jason uses Dick’s old codes to get into the Tower. He could have used his own—assuming they haven’t been disabled—but that would point to him being here, to him being alive, and Jason isn’t quite ready to reveal himself. If he ever will.

The lesson will probably be more effective if B doesn’t think he’ll get some kind of second chance with Jason. If all he knows is that he has three dead birds at his feet. Doesn’t really work if one of the birds starts flying again. Maybe when all this is over, he’ll vanish into thin air with no explanations, leaving only the Replacement’s corpse behind. Or not even a corpse. Just nothing. Let them stew over what could have happened for the rest of their lives.

Whatever their imaginations come up with, it’ll probably be worse than anything Jason could ever do. Although Jason has a very good imagination. Especially when it comes to ways of inflicting pain. That was a lesson he’d had beaten into him with a crowbar and a brand.

The plan goes off without a hitch. He doesn’t really get the chance to fight the Replacement, to beat him into the ground like he deserves, but that’s all right. He’s leaving the domino with its built-in camera for Bats or Barbie to find, and it’s probably best if they don’t see him fighting too much. The last thing he needs is for one of them to recognize a League move—or a Bat one—and start tracing him back from there. His bloodlust will have to be sated later.

He hauls the three Titans to the medbay and sets them up on IVs. Can’t have them waking up and telling on him. He doesn’t give two shits about Beast Boy or Cyborg, had never really known them, but he feels kind of bad about Raven. She was always nice to him, even if she was always lecturing about how he needed to control his anger.

Well, fuck that. He has every fucking right to his anger and he would do as he damn well pleased with it. And he was being very _controlled_ right now, thank you very much. He hadn’t even roughed up the Replacement beyond what it took to take him down. That could come later. Jason was _patient_. So there.

He sawed off the Replacement’s uniform—setting it aside neatly for Batman & Co. to find—and checked him over for trackers. B was a freak; he might have embedded something subdermally. But his search didn’t turn up anything that wasn’t in the suit. Kid was clean.

He was covered in the expected scars—nothing Jason hadn’t seen through his bedroom window—and a few new bumps and bruises that Jason couldn’t give half a shit about.

Jason set another needle in the kid’s arm that wasn’t hooked up to the IV. This one was to draw blood, and he arranged it so that Replacement’s blood started to pool in a blood bag he set on the floor.

Yeah, he could just cut the kid, and had considered doing just that, or beating him bloody, but there was no satisfaction in that. Not when he was limp and unconscious and couldn’t even scream. Jason would need him awake to torture him, and he wasn’t stupid enough to have the kid conscious in the Tower, his home turf. No matter how prepared Jason was, Robins were resourceful. He knew that well.

As the blood bag filled up, he unshackled one of the Replacement’s wrists to pull him roughly into a sitting position. He’d already removed the throwing knives that had been embedded in the muscle, nothing serious, mostly caught by the kid’s armor, and now he stitched up the cuts neatly. He wasn’t going to be caught because Replacement felt the need to bleed all over the place.

Jason let the bag fill a bit longer than necessary—not enough to kill the kid, but enough to make him weak for a while—before detaching it and pressing a gauze pad to the wound. He stuck a band-aid over the gauze—a Green Lantern one, because apparently the Titans stocked Justice League-themed merchandise in the medbay and Jason had a great sense of humor. And because Green Lantern was better than Batman.

Then it was time to work. First, the message. Jason had considered several variations on the theme: _Another dead bird; He’ll die screaming; Bye-bye birdie; This is the third._ In the end, he went clinical: Dead Robin #3. Just a simple, factual label. Because the kid in the medbay downstairs might be breathing, but that was just a technicality. Even Batman couldn’t fight cold, hard facts.

The placement, too, was something he had given a great deal of thought to. The medbay would be the most convenient, but lacked a certain something. Plus: cold, hard surfaces? The clean-up would be a breeze. No, Jason wanted something that would _stain_. He considered the Hall of Heroes, but dismissed that as well. Too easy to shunt all that emotion away in the basement, where the monuments to dead children stood. Too easy to forget they had ever been there.

No, there was only one place for it: the common room. The place where the heroes got to pretend at being real kids. Well, fuck that. Heroes died. They got hurt. It’s what they did. It didn’t matter if they were kids, and it did no one any good to pretend. Plus, the walls were wallpapered and the floor was carpeted. Jason made sure to spill enough blood that they’d have to rip up the carpet. Paint or repaper the wall. They wouldn’t be able to forget this.

He used a paintbrush—bought with cash at a corner store on the other side of the country—to form the letters. He’d wanted to do it with his fingers, but he didn’t want to accidentally leave prints in the letters or ruin his gauntlets by soaking them in blood. So, paintbrush it was. He tucked it and the blood bag—after shaking out the rest of its contents on the sofas and beanbag chairs—into his pocket. Let the Bats wonder how exactly he’d gotten Timothy’s blood.

Then it was time to wreak havoc. He retrieved his bazooka and his sledgehammer from where he’d stashed them earlier, and went to work.

Jason was in a considerably better mood when he left the Tower half an hour later, sledgehammer at his waist, guns strapped to his thighs, a rocket launcher slung over one shoulder, and a plucked Robin slung over the other.

* * *

“Jason.”

“Talia.”

He’d switched cars three times and re-sedated Robin once before finally meeting up with Talia at the rendevous point, where she was waiting with a plane and a pilot.

She eyed the limp bird on his shoulder. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Does it matter?”

She pursed her lips. “I suppose not.”

“It’s all set up like I asked?”

“Jason,” she chided, fixing him with a _look_. “Have I ever failed to come through for you before?”

Jason shifted, chastised. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Sorry, I guess I’m just nervous, you know? This is it.”

She considered him. “So it is. I thank you, for clearing the way for the Batman’s rightful heir.”

“Sure, whatever. I didn’t do it for you.” Jason had met Talia’s demon-child a few times, briefly, and he did not think that whole thing was going to go the way she planned. But it wasn’t any of his business.

“Nevertheless.”

Jason shrugged, the Replacement’s bony fucking hip digging into his shoulder. “Cool. I guess I’ll see you around. Or not.”

“Jason.” Talia hesitated, then cupped his face in one palm, kissed him gently. “Take care of yourself.”

Jason couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Yeah, of course.”

She nodded. “Good-bye, love.”

He climbed up the gangway to the plane, looked back just before ducking through the door. “Good-bye, Talia.”

A small smile tilted her lips, and then she was gone.

Jason dumped the Replacement none-too-gently on the waiting bench, nodded to the pilot. The man nodded back and started their taxi. Jason strapped in the Replacement as they took off, securing him as well as possible in the back of the plane, hands restrained behind him, knees and ankles bound with heavy-duty zipties.

He was torn between wanting to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, untrusting of the man in the cockpit, and needing to stay in the back to keep an eye on the Replacement. He should be out for hours more, but just in case…

Jason ended up splitting the difference, crouching in the entrance to the cockpit and staring at his captive bird as he drooped against his bonds.

This was the weakest link in his plan, the plane and Talia’s involvement. But he didn’t have the resources to pull this off entirely on his own, so Talia’s help it was, and Jason would just have to trust that the League wouldn’t leak. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a choice.

An hour into the flight, and Robin was shivering violently, covered in goosebumps. Jason hadn’t bothered to bring new clothes for him—there were some at the safehouse, but that was still another hour or so away.

Jason narrowed his eyes. It was probably fine.

Jason _had_ taken a lot of blood from him. He might be going into shock.

He hadn’t even started to hurt the kid yet; he probably shouldn’t let him go into shock before the fun even started.

Besides, Jason felt more than a bit gross staring at a basically-naked kid all trussed up like a Christmas turkey.

Growling, he stalked over to one of the plane’s built-in cabinets, fished around until he found the emergency supplies, and pulled out a mylar blanket. He shoved it around the kid until he was all surrounded, and returned to his perch.

The kid’s head lolled against his chest. He was drooling. Disgusting. Jason couldn’t wait to tear him apart. One more hour, plus however long it took Replacement to wake up.

Then the Pit could come out to play.

* * *

* * *

Tim woke up slowly, his head clouded with fog. He was sore, and he didn’t remember falling asleep. He groaned and shifted—

“About time you woke up.”

Tim froze, memories of the Tower and the confrontation with Red Hood crashing into him. And then the actual Red Hood crashing into him.

Tim struggled—of course he struggled—but his limbs didn’t quite seem ready to obey him, and he was unarmed and unarmored.

 _Oh fuck_ , he was unarmed and unarmored.

Before that thought could really sink in, he was up against a wall, vision spotting black, and gasping desparately for air as the Red Hood blocked his windpipe with an armored forearm. He couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t _breathe_ , and the world closed in around him, and he didn’t even know _why_ , why his lungs were spasming and his insides burning and everything on fire as his whole body screamed for air, please dear God, _air_ , his bare arms and legs scrabbling uselessly against concrete and body armor, he couldn’t _breathe_ , he couldn’t fight, everything was black, he was going to die, he knew it in his soul, in every fiber of his being, this was how he died, gasping, choking, desparate for air and unable even to scream at the pain.

And then suddenly he could gasp in a gulp of air, then another, as the pressure abated and he—was choking _again_ , he couldn’t breathe, and it wasn’t _fair_ , he had _just_ managed to claw a breath in, he had _just_ resigned himself to the truth he was dying, and now here he was again, helpless and burning, in so much pain, please air, please, please, and he couldn’t even stop his body from desparately struggling to stay awake, trying to force something into his lungs and failing miserably, spasming and hurting, and screaming at him that something was wrong. _No duh, body, we’re being choked out by a helmeted psychopath_. _Of course something is wrong._

Again, he thought this was it. He knew it in his bones and in his aching lungs. He was dead. And again he pitched forward and was allowed a desperate gasp of air. And again he was choking and dying. And again. And again. And again.

Tim had no idea how long it went on for. It seemed unending. He tried going limp; he tried struggling; he tried to gasp out pleas and curses. Nothing mattered. This was all there was now. The pain and the dying and the inhale of hope—how he wished he could just not breathe in, but every time his body betrayed him and refused to die. It went on forever.

He was on the ground. He was on the ground and _breathing_. He was breathing. It was a trick. He knew it was a trick. Tim didn’t get to breathe, only gasp, and only after the pain, so why was he breathing, why was he breathing, oh god everything hurt so bad please please please make it stop.

“Enjoy the warm-up, Replacement?”

Tim lay shaking on the ground.

An armored boot crashed into his ribs, and Tim curled instinctively around himself, wheezing blood.

“I asked you a question: are you enjoying the warm-up, Replacement?” The words were spaced out, overly enunciated. Tim tried to force himself to focus on them.

“Please…” The word burned coming out, and he couldn’t manage more than a hoarse whisper through the bruised mess that used to be his throat.

“It’s a yes or no question, _Robin_.” Hood crouched down and tilted Tim’s chin up so that he was looking into glowing mechanical eyes.

There was no good option.

“Do I need to jog your memory?”

“No!” _Fuck_ , that hurt. “No, no, nonono, please.”

“Are you sure? I think I do.”

And _again_ , Tim couldn’t breathe, pressed up against the floor this time, dying in agony until finally he was allowed air once more.

“Let’s try this again. Enjoy the warm-up?”

“ _No_.” He _couldn’t_. He couldn’t do that again. Please.

“Oh. That’s too bad.” Hood’s voice dripped with fake sympathy. “We’ll try it again later, see if it’s grown on you. In the meantime, I’m sure we can find _something_ you like. Tell me, Timothy, how do you feel about electricity?”

Tim couldn’t stop the whimper that clawed its way up his throat.

* * *

“Why are you doing this?” Tim’s whole body was limp, wrung out. The last few—hours? days? it felt like years—had passed in a blur of agony and pain, peppered with Red Hood’s taunts about what he was _going_ to do next.

“Patching you up?” The Red Hood asked, willfully obtuse, as he rubbed some kind of salve into the rope burns on Tim’s wrist. “I _told_ you, Timmers, we’re gonna start with the stuff that heals easily, the stuff that doesn’t deal lasting damage, and work our way up from there until you are _begging for the sweet release of death_ , and even then I won’t give it to you. Can’t do that if you start falling apart on me. So we gotta take care of you, make sure you don’t die yet. Not until I say you can.” He pat Tim’s cheek with one gauntleted hand. “It’ll be a while.”

“But _why_?”

Red Hood stopped his ministrations, Tim’s wrist still in his hand. The blank expanse of his helmet swivelled to stare into Tim’s own face. There was a long pause, a considering silence. Tim didn’t dare move. “Because you’re Robin,” he said, as if that answered anything.

“What?”

A sigh. “This is what happens to Robins,” he explained, as if talking to a very young child. “They get kidnapped, and tortured, and die.”

Tim stared at his own distorted reflection in that blank, unmoving red surface. “But I don’t _understand_ ,” he pressed, well aware that he was pushing his luck. “ _Why_?”

“Because Daddy Bats doesn’t take very good care of his toys,” snapped Hood. “He takes them in, trains them up, and sends them off to fight in his personal crusade against crime. Then, when they break, he finds a new one and forgets all about the old. You should know this by now; you’re—what?—the second replacement? Or would it be fourth?” He hummed in thought. “How _do_ you count the girl one, when you were both before and after?”

“That’s not…” Tim was so confused. _What did any of that have to do with why Red Hood was torturing him?_

The grip on his wrist tightened painfully. “Don’t pretend you don’t know I’m right, Replacement. First there was Grayson: the original model. The Platonic ideal of a Robin. But he got too old, too independent, so Bruce went ahead and replaced him with an inferior copy that he plucked out of the trash. That reckless fool went ahead and got himself blown up by the Clown, so bye-bye birdie number two. But obviously he didn’t matter, because Bruce brushed it off and went ahead and picked out Robin number three, Replacement number two—that’s you—and you were out playing the part like an understudy’s understudy before the idiot’s corpse even had the chance cool off in its casket.”

“Don’t you _fucking_ talk about Jason like that.” White-hot rage gripped Tim. _Enough_. “Don’t you fucking dare.” Jason had dealt with enough people looking down on him while he was alive, enough people thinking he was less-good version of Dick. The socialites, the Teen Titans, even _Dick himself._

Tim wouldn’t stand for it. He didn’t care what the consequences were. Jason was _his_ Robin, and Tim wouldn’t stand for it. 

His voice came out as a low hiss, rough, cracked, and dangerous. “Jason Todd was a goddamn hero and a hundred times the man you’ll ever be. He was brave, and smart, and funny, and _kind_ , and he always took the time to comfort the victims, and his death was a fucking tragedy, and it _broke_ Bruce, it _broke_ him, and you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

Tim was surprised the Red Hood hadn’t stopped him yet, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I’m a replacement, like you keep saying. Yeah. _Duh_. I know that. I’ve always known that. I’ve always just been a poor stand-in for what Robin should have been. I could never measure up to Jason, but I’ve tried to make him proud. Because he was my Robin. And he was amazing. He wasn’t inferior, or trash, or anyone’s replacement. He was his own fucking person and that person was the best—”

He broke off in a fit of hoarse coughing, his abused throat finally giving out on him. He tried to breathe, but the only thing that came out was a pained wheeze.

The Red Hood just watched him, stone-still, as Tim struggled and finally got himself under control. Tim could feel the weight of his stare even through the helmet.

The silence stretched on.

“Is that what you think.”

Tim glared at him. “It’s the truth.” His voice gave out halfway through the sentence.

Hood tapped Tim’s lips closed. If he wasn’t wearing those stupid fucking gauntlets, Tim would have bitten his fingers off.

Abruptly, Hood rose, taking the medical supplies with him. “Get some rest,” he said. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”


	5. Jason & Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific tws for disassociation; panic attacks; aftermath of torture. General tws (as always) still apply.

Jason was breathing very calmly.

He _was_.

Jason was being very calm.

He was in the bathroom, still in full armor and hood, staring directly at the mirror and not seeing anything.

The Lazarus Pit was quiet and still. He wanted it back. He wanted it _back_.

The thought did not carry near as much anger as it should have.

Thoughts were very far away.

Were they even _his_ thoughts? Someone had said…something, and it had sent all the thoughts all scattering away. They were out of reach, floating gently in his brain, along with the glowing green swirl of the Pit and his rage and all feeling. Just…there. In the brain, far away.

It wasn’t his brain. It wasn’t his body. Jason was just a ghost, inhabiting a constructed corpse. It wasn’t real.

Everything was so far away.

Was he dead again?

Or maybe he’d never come back.

Mm, that sounded more likely.

He’d been doing something.

He’d been doing something, and now he was here, and the thought of trying to remember what he’d been doing brought a painful flutter of absolute terror he couldn’t touch.

He would just float.

In the soup with the thoughts and the Pit and the air and all the other dead things. Bump away anything that drifted too near.

Just float.

Jason stood there for he-didn’t-know-how-long until his legs grew tired and he crashed to his knees.

“Ow.” Jason was wearing armor; it didn’t actually hurt.

Maybe it hurt the floor.

He patted the floor. “Sorry.”

He sank down to lie on the tile.

The floor should be cold. It wasn’t. Why?

Oh, helmet.

He released the catch and pushed the helmet away.

The tile was cold against his cheek. _Good. Better_. Jason leaned into it. The thoughts were above him now, swirling, swirling, swirling. Jason didn’t want them inside him. Circling like vultures, come to pick on dead meat.

Jason didn’t want them inside him.

They _hurt._

Like they sensed his fear, the thoughts shrieked and flew to meet him. They wouldn’t stop _coming_ , swooping down again and again to _peck, peck, peck_ , and Jason covered his head with his arms, but the thoughts flew straight through them and _peck peck peck_ and it _hurt_ it _hurt_ , unending pain and torment, shrieking laughter, the birds flew down and Jason was Prometheus and he couldn’t defend himself couldn’t escape couldn’t die couldn’t die, healed and ripped open, it hurt, it hurt, he wanted to smash his head on the ground, crack it open like an egg, make the thoughts and the noise be out, get out, get _out_.

He grabbed a fistful of hair and _pulled_ , strong grip, pain good yes, can’t _think_ when the head hurts except the thoughts and the feelings kept their relentless assault, dive-bombing down down down, again and again and it wouldn’t stop wouldn’t stop wouldn’t _stop_.

Jason _screamed_ , and turned on the water, threw himself into the shower, uncaring of the temperature, let it protect him drops of rain, but the birds flew through, and the Green, but not enough, not enough, and he was going to throw up he was going to die he was already dead it hurt make it stop make it stop make it _stop_.

He dove for his helmet and slammed it back on his head, slipping a bit in the tub, but even the helmet offered no protection, no solace, no peace, so he tore it off again and threw it at the mirror, which shattered with a satisfying _crash_ , the first thing loud enough to drown out the shrieking laughter of his mind.

So Jason unholstered a gun, threw it at the mirror too. And again the crash, and the temporary peace. He threw his other gun, then followed it out of the shower, picked it up off the ground, and pounded the mirror into submission, the screech, the crash, the shatter of tinkling glass again and again and again.

 _Ha_. Crash. _Ha_. Crash. _Ha_. Crash.

Then the mirror was done so he turned to the sink. Smash, smash, smash. Shoot the gun. _Bang._ His helmet was off; he wasn’t wearing ear protection. It was enough to make his ears ring and echo. He emptied the clip. _Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

Other gun. _Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

Reload. Fire again. Reload. Fire. Reload. Needed to get more rounds.

Moving on autopilot, Jason holstered his pistols and strode to his gun rack. Grabbed a twelve gauge and a box of lead slugs. He wanted the _thump_ and the recoil and the noise and the methodical unloading and reloading and the _bang_ and the _thump_. He went outside, where he had targets set up, grabbed some ear protection because he wasn’t entirely stupid.

Then he shot and shot and shot and shot until the thoughts stopped coming.

* * *

Tim panted on the ground, eyes on the door Red Hood had just left through. _What. the actual. frick_.

Nothing made any sense.

It took him a few minutes to slowly draw himself together. _Okay. Okay_. He was Robin. He could do this. Step one: pull yourself together. Step two: assess the situation. Step three: escape. Step four (figure out what was going on) could wait until he was semi-safe.

Tim took stock of himself and his surroundings. He was wearing an unfamiliar white tanktop and shorts, no domino, nothing left of his uniform or equipment. He tried not to imagine how the Red Hood had gotten him into the new get-up.

The clothes didn’t cover much, but Tim didn’t _think_ it was in a pervy way. More like in a not much spare material, tight enough that he couldn’t hide anything in his clothes, thin enough that he’d be freezing once he managed to get outside (assuming they were near either Gotham or San Francisco, where it was winter—which, now that Tim thought about it, wasn’t a given), sparse and similar enough to underclothes that he felt vulnerable. The Red Hood had a _thing_ against rapists, right? Of course, he also had a thing about people who hurt kids, and Tim had no illusions that Hood didn’t know his age. Okay, _bad_ , but a problem for Later Tim. At least it wasn’t too cold in his cell.

Okay, next: how injured was he? Tim was surprised to figure out the answer was _not much._ Or, not nearly as much as he expected for how bad he felt. He had a headache and was feeling slightly light-headed, but no concussion. He was pretty sure the sedative had completely worn off. Rope burns on his wrists and elbows, superficial scrapes down his arms and legs. A small cut on his shoulder, neatly stitched up. A piece of gauze on the inside of his elbow held down with…a _Green Lantern band-aid_? He pried it off and found a needle-mark underneath. Okay, probably from the sedation? Why _Green Lantern_ though? He pat it back down and decided that he’d save that question for a future Tim. A smattering of bruises across his body, mostly old. Electrical burns on his torso. A couple of potentially cracked ribs. And his throat.

Those would be the biggest problems, the ribs and his throat. _Breathing_ hurt. Any major exertion would be agony. But he didn’t think the damage would be permanent. Not yet, at least. He needed to get out of here _quickly_ , before the Red Hood made good on his threats and incapacitated Tim more thoroughly. Right now, his limbs were all working, he had all his fingers and toes, and he could see and hear. Based on what he could remember from Hood’s threats, that might not be the case for long.

Okay. Injury assessment: done. Environmental assessment: go.

He was in a cell, but a large one. Big enough to be an entire apartment. Open space, concrete walls and floors. One wall had a thick metal ring embedded into it. Tim didn’t want to think about what that could be for.

High ceilings with fluorescent lighting. Tim wouldn’t be able to reach the bulbs unless he suddenly learned how to fly. He couldn’t find a light switch. No windows. Some ringing and hushing sounds that could either be the lights or his own head giving him feedback or a white noise machine. Or all three. No other easily discernable sounds.

Though, thinking of white noise… “Kon,” Tim forced out. “Kon, if you can hear me. I know you need space but I could really use some help.” God, his throat hurt. So much.

Nothing happened. Tim’s heart sank as the minutes stretched on. He hadn’t really been expecting anything, but still. He kept repeating the plea as he continued tacking stock.

Air vents, positioned at the top of the walls, too small for even his hand to fit through. Potentially able to emit gas of some kind. A speaker, similarly out of reach.

It took Tim a while to place the cameras, but he was pretty sure they were embedded in the walls between the vents. No blindspots, except for an alcove partway covered by a sheet of what looked like frosted glass that mostly hid a toilet. Yay, he got semi-privacy to take a shit! The cameras would only pick him up in silhouette! Wasn’t that just _considerate._

Tim rapped on the sheet, but whatever it was made of would be difficult to break without equipment. It was embedded into the floor, wall, and ceiling on three sides, immovable. The toilet itself was similarly sunk into the walls and the floor, with no movable parts exposed except the flusher. There was a sink on the other side of the alcove, not concealed by the semi-opaque screen, and only the basin and the handles were visible, the pipes presumably in the wall somewhere. He couldn’t figure out a way to get the handles unscrewed, which meant the bathroom was a bust for escape materials. That was…very not good. The bathroom—if there was one—was usually the best place to find makeshift weapons or escape implements. Pipes, screws, chain, wires. Toilet tank covers could make could shields, or bludgeoning weapons. Maybe some cleaning chemicals if someone was _really_ careless.

But noooo, Tim got to get kidnapped by a nutjob who actually knew what he was doing. It was infuriating.

On the opposite wall, there was a shelving unit built into the wall. It contained a large amount of plastic water bottles, protein bars, nutrient shakes, and a bunch of MREs.

MREs. Hm. Those usually had plastic spoons in them. Tim tore one open, and yup, plastic spoon. He could…make a shiv out of it? Of course, he could also make a shiv out of the paper packaging and some water, it would just take a while. He wasn’t really sure if either would do him any good. He kept a hold of the spoon as he continued exploring, though.

There was a tatami mat on the floor, with a foam mattress, blanket, and pillow on top. The blanket was thick, fluffy shearling. Nice. Inexplicable, weird, and not super useful for escape purposes, but nice. He draped it over himself like a cape and knotted it closed, feeling much more secure already, with his spoon and his blanket. Which was so stupid, because neither of them would help him when Hood returned.

But he felt better anyway.

The only other thing in the room was, incongruously, a sofa, facing away from the mattress and towards the door. It was orange, and plush, and the legs were sunk into the floor. Not even bolted—he might have been able to get the bolts out and use them for something—the couch was _sunk_ into the floor. It was more than a bit ridiculous.

That was everything in the room. Only one thing left to check out: the door. Which was, as far as he could tell, the only viable exit. He had saved it for last in case examining it up close brought Red Hood back in. Thankfully, his fears seemed to be unfounded.

The door was a hulking piece of metal that reminded Tim of a bank vault. It fit seamlessly into the wall; Tim couldn’t even crack a fingernail between the door and the wall, or the floor. The hinges must be on the outside. There was no handle, but there was a lock set into the door. The lock itself didn’t look too complicated—old fashioned, needed a key, no electronics or biometric scanners—but he didn’t have anything to pick it with. At least if there had been some kind of tech, he could have probably pried it apart with enough effort and had some materials. As it was, he had nothing.

Red Hood, or whoever he was working for, was _good_. And he hadn’t underestimated Tim.

Pushing down the uneasy knot of fear in his stomach, Tim went back to the food shelf and opened a bottle of water. There was enough food and water to last him _weeks_ , if not months. It didn’t make sense to leave it all in the cell with him unless Hood was planning on leaving him locked down here that long without contact.

Solitary isolation as a form of torture? Didn’t seem like Hood’s style, based on what he’d seen, but it was possible. Well, Hood would be surprised at how good Tim was at being alone. Sucked that he didn’t have anything to entertain himself with, but Tim would make do. He could make himself very, _very_ dangerous with enough time on his hands, even if he didn’t have many resources.

Assuming he wasn’t also being tortured during that time.

He poured the water down his throat, trying to minimize any swallowing. That _hurt_. Still, he forced the whole thing down in small, painful sips, and then another bottle. He needed water. The very idea of trying to swallow the MRE made him want to die, but he did force himself to take intermittent sips of one of the nutrient shakes. All of it could be poisoned, but Tim decided that was an acceptable risk, especially because it wasn’t exactly like he could stop the Red Hood from forcing something down his throat or into his veins.

He sat on the cot, sipping his shake and thinking. He didn’t trust the couch: it was incongruous and inexplicable, and therefore suspect. The blanket was similarly suspect, but its softness and body-obscuring abilities outweighed its suspiciousness factor.

His brain was going into overdrive, trying to map out all the possibilities, but eventually exhaustion overtook him and he slipped off into an uneasy state of dreaming.

* * *

Jason was empty. It was hours later. Midnight-ish. He’d left the Replacement at 8:00pm or so. He hadn’t turned the lights off in the cell. Whoops. He’d meant to do that—or he thought he’d meant to do it—but the lights were still on. According to the cameras, though, the kid was on the cot, sleeping, so Jason decided to leave it be. If he turned them off now, he’d probably wake the kid up.

Which. Why did Jason care about whether or not he woke up the fucking Replacement? He’d just _tortured_ the boy. He _should_ turn the lights off, scare him a bit, make him ride out a wave of fear and anticipation.

Jason grimaced. He knew why he didn’t; he just didn’t like it. _Jason Todd was a goddamn hero and a hundred times the man you’ll ever be_. What the fuck kind of lies had the old man been feeding the kid? Jason had never been worth shit. But Tim’s eyes had blazed with a righteous furor and for a moment Jason had almost believed him.

He had wanted to believe him, so bad.

 _He wasn’t inferior, or trash, or anyone’s replacement. He was his own fucking person, and that person was the best_. What the fuck, Replacement? Why would he say that??

Was he trying to play on Jason’s emotions? Was Jason that obvious? Was he that fucking pathetic, that deperate for approval?

Maybe he was, because it was fucking driving him up the goddamn wall and out of the fucking house and all he wanted to do was go down there and shake the Replacement until he told him _why_.

Except the Replacement didn’t know who Jason was. He _couldn’t_ know who Jason was. Could he?

Did he?

 _Fuck_.

Jason needed to know. He needed to know and he didn’t know how.

What the fuck was he supposed to do, march up to the kid and say, _tell me why you said that about Jason Todd or I’ll cut off your fingers_? The kid _already_ thought that Jason was going to cut off his fingers for no reason at all. Or, at least, no reason known to him. Wouldn’t be a fucking motivator.

Besides, information gained through torture was notoriously unreliable. _Jason_ had certainly never been very truthful when he was getting beat, whether it was Willis or older kids on the streets or enforcers that caught him in the wrong place at the wrong time. You just said whatever in those situations, whatever you thought would make it stop.

But how the hell else was he supposed to get to the truth?

Talia would say it was about _leverage_ , leverage and pain. He could find something the kid wanted. Or didn’t want. Apply a judicial amount of pressure. Simple enough.

Bruce would…Bruce would dangle the kid off a building, probably. Or, maybe not because, well, _kid_. Bruce would design some kind of psychological test that you didn’t know was test until after it was over and you’d already failed, and then you felt miserable about yourself for the rest of your short life because you had to confront that you were the kind of person who would kill a puppy or whatever.

But Jason wasn’t Bruce. He wasn’t Talia. He didn’t have reams upon reams of impossible surveillance records. He didn’t have the ability to psychoanalyze people from across the continent. He couldn’t deduce the best way to blackmail a guy from the twitch of his brow.

He was just Jason, and a poor imitation of Jason at that. He was good at destroying things. Good at hurting; good at killing; good at blowing things up.

 _He was brave, and smart, and funny, and kind, and he always took the time to comfort the victims_.

Why the _fuck_ would the Replacement think that when all the evidence said otherwise? He was supposed to be the smart one. The detective.

Besides, that Jason was dead—if he had ever existed.

His chest ached.

He wanted to know.

He didn’t know how.

He was too fucking tired for this bullshit.

 _Fuck it_. He’d figure it out in the morning.

Maybe Morning Jason wouldn’t be such a pathetic sack of shit, and he could get back to his plans of cold-blooded torture. That would be nice.

Yeah, that would be nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Me:** Okay, you want to get Jason’s reaction to Tim’s speech, and then Jason and Tim having the conversation you’ve already plotted, so that we can get back to Bruce & the Batfam next chapter. The focus of this chapter should be that conversation, though. That’s the important bit to move the story forward.
> 
>  **Also me:** 1200+ word description of the cell that is not necessary. Panic attack gun range. No conversation. No talking. No plot. Just boys think. By themselves.


	6. Tim & Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All previous tws apply. Special mention for mentions of suicide, torture, descriptions of graphic violence

The morning did not bring answers. Jason woke with a headache and a sense of dread. “God Jesus Fuck Dammit.” He buried his head in his pillow and tried to shut out consciousness. It didn’t work, so, groaning, he rolled himself off the bed and flopped onto the floor.

A quick peek into the bathroom showed that yep, he _hadn’t_ imagined blasting everything in it to smithereens. Great.

Sighing, he closed the door, and made his way to the other bathroom, the one just off the kitchen. This one didn’t have a shower, but Jason would deal. Worst came to worst, there was a shower in the bunker-slash-prison downstairs. Not in the cell part, but there were other rooms down there.

He didn’t like stripping his body armour off long enough to shower anyway. And he’d stood under shower water yesterday, so that had to count for something, right? Granted, he’d been in full armor and he hadn’t attempted anything close to a _wash_ , but…po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Sponge baths where he only had to uncover one piece of armour at a time were the way of the future, anyway.

Even as he had the thought, he knew it wasn’t healthy. _Paranoid_ , and he knew it. _It’s not paranoia if they’re actually out to get you_.

Ugh, fine. He’d clean up the bathroom later. His paranoia this time around was likely misplaced.

It had been thirty hours since he’d kidnapped the Replacement. They’d probably called in Superman by now. Assuming Bruce and Clark were still on good terms. Hard to tell—Jason had access to the Bats’ comms, but not the Justice League’s, and Batman and Superman’s public personas told him nothing about how Bruce and Clark were doing.

But he’d broken into _Titans_ Tower, and the Teen Titans were at least loosely affiliated with the Justice League. Superman had almost certainly been called. He and Superboy were both on Earth, as of two days ago, but neither had shown up yet. Which probably meant that his anti-Kryptonian measures were holding. White noise machines and lead-lined walls. And just in case, a small bit of Kryptonite in his helmet, and another in his boot. Can’t beat a classic.

So he was unlikely to be attacked by a godlike alien while naked in the shower. But maybe he should shower with the Kryptonite anyway, just in case. He already kept a gun within easy reach for emergencies. It wouldn’t be too hard to hollow out a small compartment in the handle for Kryptonite storage.

 _Mm_. Yeah, he’d do that before the next time he stripped down.

Part of him thought he was being ridiculous, but the larger part knew he was just preparing for a plausible outcome to this whole scenario.

He put his shower plans on the back burner and fried up some breakfast. Eggs, bacon, and toast. With avocado, because _goddammit_ , Ana Rosa Salgado-Mejia hadn’t walked from La Ceiba, Honduras to motherfucking _Gotham, New Jersey_ for her grandson to be scared off from eating avocado toast by fucking _white girl trends_.

And he threw some arugula on top because he was taking care of his freakish zombie body, and that included eating greens. It wasn’t so bad with some sea salt, a dash of chili pepper, and lime sprinkled overtop.

As he ate, he popped an earphone in, and fast-forwarded through yesterday’s recordings of the bat-communications. There wasn’t much until the evening—they must have been using JL communicators until then. But Dickwing and the Bat were tearing through his operations like two bats out of hell, pun very much intended.

Score one for zombie boy. The bats sounded angry, frantic, confused. Or, they sounded professional and emotionless, but Jason knew how to read between the repressed and blood-soaked lines. They were rattled, and they didn’t know shit about shit.

Jason grinned, mood picking up considerably. Step one of revenge plan: done. Flawlessly executed. Beautiful, meticulous work from Jason motherfucking Todd. He deserved a medal.

He’d let them stew in their own cluelessness and misery for a while, and then—when their hope had started to peter out—he’d up the ante a bit. This was going to be _fun._ He’d have a few more days, maybe weeks, to get footage out of Replacement.

Speaking of, how _was_ his captive doing this fine November morning? He stuffed the last of the avocado toast in his mouth and went to speed through the bunker footage.

The footage looked exactly like Jason expected it to look, Replacement going about the Bat-Guide to Being Kidnapped(TM) step-by-step. Taking stock of injuries; wandering; wandering; trying and failing to take apart the toilet; palming a spoon from one of the MREs—Jason would have to confiscate that, not because it might be dangerous but because Replacement should know he was _always_ watching; making a blanket cape— _aww, he’s a superhero! Isn’t that cute_ ; examining the door; drinking water; glaring at the couch; getting more water; circling the couch as he drank; going to the bathroom; massaging his throat; getting a protein shake; more glaring at the couch— _what was his problem with it? It was a perfectly fine couch_ ; drinking the protein shake; and finally, dropping off to sleep, which he was still doing right now. Truly, Replacement led such a _riveting_ life.

Now Jason just had to decide what to do next. He needed _answers_ , needed to know what Replacement knew about him, and straight-up torture wasn’t gonna get him there. That left either bribery or mind games in his get-information-from-people arsenal. Or _both_.

Ooh. This could be _good._ Play good cop now, offer up some perks, some hope at kindness, make it hurt all the more when he went back to being sadistic cop. Or sadistic criminal, as it were.

Jason put the kettle on, and donned his helmet.

* * *

Tim was having _the dream_ again. Darla, bleeding out in his arms. Steph. His mom and dad, who were also Thomas and Martha Wayne. All of them dead by his hand.

The gun in his lap.

Bruce.

Bruce’s gentle eyes, gentle hands. “Why did you kill me, Tim?” Bruce easing the gun out of Tim’s limp fingers. He couldn’t move, couldn’t stop it. “Why did you let me die?”

Bruce raised the gun—

A harsh _jolt_. Bright light. A voice in his ear. “Hey, kid. Hey, hey, hey. It’s alright, kiddo. Just a nightmare. Shhh. It was just a dream. Shhh.”

Strong arms circling around him, body armor. A hand rubbing his back. _Batman?_ No, Bruce.

Bruce was _here_ , Bruce was alive, Tim hadn’t failed him, he was alive, everything was fine. Tim sobbed and let himself relax into the hold, shut his eyes tight against the images playing in his brain.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

The hand paused on his back, switched to combing gentle fingers through his hair. “Why?”

Tim sank into the touch. He didn’t deserve it. He was a terrible Robin. But Bruce was being so _kind._ “I didn’t mean to let you die.”

The body behind him tensed, the hand gripping a fistful of hair too tight.

“ _Ow_.” Tim tried to squirm out of the now-painful grasp.

The arms around him didn’t budge. “Pretty sure you had nothing to do with my death, Replacement. Unless you have something you want to share with the class?”

Tim froze. Oh _shit_. His eyes flew open and, yep, he was still in Red Hood’s stupidly secure prison cell. Only Red Hood himself was wrapped around Tim, holding him trapped in a tight bear hug.

Tim thrashed, trying to escape, but he’d let himself sink right into the hold and Hood’s arms were like steel traps. The man had wrapped himself entirely around Tim, so that Tim’s legs were pinned by his own, and Tim could do little more than ineffectually rock against his captor and scream.

That only caused the grip around him to tighten. “Shhh. Shhhh. Calm down. Shhh. It’s alright, Timbo. Shhh.”

Tim sobbed. Did Hood think he’d actually _believe_ that? He had no idea what kind of sick game this was, but he knew that _nothing_ was alright and it was going to end with him in agony.

No matter how hard Tim struggled to escape his captor’s hold, Hood just held on tighter and shushed him with quiet reassurances that meant nothing, until eventually Tim had no choice but to flop back, limp and useless, exhausted muscles completely wrung out by his efforts.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Just get on with the torture part,” Tim snapped, hoarse, his still-injured throat protesting every word. “I’m not falling for your mind games.”

“Mm. I dunno, you seemed pretty comfortable earlier.”

“That’s because I thought you were _Bruce_ , dumbass.”

The arms tightened painfully around him, and Tim thought for a second they were going to go into another round of ‘Suffocate the Tim,’ before they deliberately relaxed.

“I am _nothing_ like Bruce,” Hood hissed.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Tim snapped back. “For one, _he_ doesn’t torture children.”

“No, he just stands back and lets them be tortured.”

“You don’t have the moral high ground here, Hood and I’m not suddenly going to sympathize with whatever cause it is you’re preaching because you played nice for a few minutes.” Fuck, Tim’s throat hurt _even more_ than it had yesterday. And today had barely even started.

“Too bad.” Tim felt Hood shrug behind him. “And part of my ‘playing nice’ was _going_ to be giving you some warm honey tea. I guess I’ll just have to drink it myself. Or pour it down the drain.”

Tim _hated_ that his body perked up at ‘honey tea.’

Hood chuckled. “You want some?”

Tim set his jaw and shook his head.

“You _sure_?”

Nod. He wasn’t going to buy into any of Hood’s so-called kindness.

“All right.” Hood shifted so that one arm held both of Tim’s own arms pinned to his sides, and used his newly-free hand to scoop up a mug of tea set just within reach on the floor.

Tim bit back a whine as the warm scent of honey wafted by him. _God_ , that would be nice right now.

Hood held the mug somewhere above and behind him. “You know,” he said, “the ancient Greeks told tale of this punishment, scaphism. You ever heard of it?”

Tim had practically dropped out after middle school. No, he did not know ancient Greek torture techniques.

He didn’t respond to Hood’s question.

“Basically, they’d chain you to a boat, or a hollowed-out log, and force-feed you milk and honey until you shit yourself. Then they’d cover you with more milk and honey and wait for the insects to descend. The wasps, the flies, the stinging beetles. And the bugs would burrow into your flesh and eat you from the inside out while you were still alive and you couldn’t do a damn thing about it. They’d keep feeding you, though. Milk and honey. People could last days on that. _Weeks_.” He paused, and Tim felt the warmth of the mug near his forehead. “What do you think, Replacement, should we try it out?”

Tim didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. Hood would do what he wanted, and Tim responding in any way would only play into whatever sick fantasies Hood was dreaming up.

“I can feel your heartbeat, Tim-Tam. I know you’re scared.”

Tim blinked against tears.

The mug travelled down his face, stopped at his lips. “Drink.”

Tim pressed his lips together.

“Drink, and I _won’t_ leave you out for the fire ants when I kill you.”

It would set a bad precedent to give in now. It would let Hood know _exactly_ what he could do to control him. But he could _feel_ the honey on his lips, a balm for his aching throat; he could _smell_ the sweet tea, the promise of warmth and caffeine. He held out for a few more seconds, hating himself for his weakness, his _uselessness_ , his complete and utter _inadequacy_ , before acquiescing. “Fine.”

Surprisingly, Hood didn’t gloat. He just nodded and tilted Tim’s chin back against his chest, poured the tea into his mouth, a sipful at a time. “Slowly,” he cautioned, taking the mug away, when Tim tried to guzzle down more. “Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Tim hated it, but his body responded automatically to the reassurances, relaxing in Hood’s hold.

Hood brought the mug back to Tim’s lips. “Drink.”

Tim bit back a sob of relief as the honey soothed his battered throat.

“One more sip.”

Tim obeyed, tried to chase the mug with his head as Hood set it aside, still half full.

“In a bit.”

Tim sagged in defeat. It was taking all his energy not to cry. Usually when he got kidnapped, he just got beat up a bunch. Maybe there were tools involved if the scum in question wanted to get _creative_. Sometimes magic, especially if it was a YJ mission. Tim could take pain. He’d been tortured before. Multiple times. He’d never broken. But _this_?

He could _feel_ himself giving in. It hadn’t even been a full day—or, at least, he hadn’t been conscious for a full day—and he was already breaking. _Pathetic._ Dick would never have been this weak. Jason would never have been this weak.

 _Jason_ had been tortured to _death_ and he hadn’t broken. So had Steph.

 _Tim_ was sinking straight into Red Hood’s plot, leaning into the way Hood’s thumb was rubbing his arm in soothing circles.

Tim was a disgrace to the mantle of Robin.

“What do you want?” he asked, despondent.

A shrug. “Let’s talk, Replacement.”

“I’m not going to sell out any of the Bats. I don’t care what you do, what you threaten me with. I won’t.”

Hood snorted. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the Bats. I know everything I need to know about them anyway.”

“I won’t sell out any other heroes, either.”

“Wasn’t asking you to.”

Tim bit the inside of his cheek to stop a snappy retort. “What did you want to _talk_ about then?”

A long silence, thoughtful. “You were dreaming. What were you dreaming about?”

Tim frowned. “What?”

“What was your dream?” Hood repeated the question.

“Um, does it matter? It was just a dream, it’s not like—”

“You said you didn’t mean to let me die. Except you thought I was B.” A dismissive snort. “So you let B die in your little nightmare. Where’s that come from? Mishap when you were Robin, perhaps? Or…”

Tim parsed out the request. “…You want me to psychoanalyze my own dreams?”

“Sure, yeah, you could call it that.”

“ _Why_?”

“I’m curious.”

Tim sighed, considering. If they were talking, Hood _wasn’t_ torturing him. He just…had to talk about his dream. That was better than torture. Marginally. Hood already knew all their identities, and a scary amount of personal information. And it wasn’t like Hood could use this particular fear against any of the family. Or against Tim. Not unless he kidnapped Batman.

If he did, Hood would have his hands full with an angry Batman.

That was a nice mental image.

“Fine, okay. My dream is, um, I have a gun, and then Bruce takes it and he kills himself and I can’t stop it.” Hood only knew about the Batman bits, so Tim wasn’t going to share any of the rest. “I just watch him do it, and I can’t move, and it’s all my fault because I’m _right there_ and it’s _my gun_ and I didn’t do _anything_.” 

A pause. “…That’s it?”

“What, that isn’t enough for you?”

“Just doesn’t seem very realistic. Just, so far out of the realm of possibility. Not worth getting as freaked out about it as you were.”

“Gee, thanks. That’s what everyone wants to hear about their nightmares. ‘ _It’s not that bad_.’” Tim rolled his eyes.

“I’m holding you captive, baby bird. I don’t have to be nice.” Tim could hear the smile in Hood’s voice. “All I’m saying is it should be pretty easy to tell dream from reality. Do you even _own_ a gun?”

“Yes.”

“… _What_?”

“Yes, I own a gun.”

“Pretty sure Bats has _rules_ about that.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t always _follow_ the rules.”

“Oh, is our Timmybird a _rebel_? Watch out, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a _bad boy_ on our hands.”

“Shut up.”

“Ooh, good one, Timbourine. I’m quaking in my boots. If you’re so scared of owning a gun that you have nightmares about it, why do you keep it?”

Tim was silent.

“Hey, Timbit.” Hood nudged him with his leg. “Why do you have a gun?” Just the barest hint of a threat colored his tone.

Tim sighed. “It’s…It was my father’s. When he was killed, he tried to defend himself. Got the murderer, too. They both died. I keep it in a gun safe in my apartment, I’m not _stupid_ , but…I don’t know, he was a pretty shitty dad, most of the time, but he was my _dad_. He taught me how to use it, when I was a kid. Think it was the longest time I ever spent with him. He took me to the range, then we went to go see a baseball game.”

Tim had never told anyone this story, but now the words were spilling out of his mouth, unstoppable. “Just, a full eight or nine hours, and he was actually paying attention to me, and it wasn’t even _bad_ attention. He didn’t yell at me _once_ , or break any of my things, or send me away, or tell me that I was worthless. I was _good_ at shooting a gun, and he told me he was proud of me and he ruffled my hair and took me to the baseball game as a treat, and even though I don’t like baseball it was so _good_. Just, such a good day. Because he was there, and he was trying. Like we were a TV family, or something.”

Tim tapered off, and Red Hood still didn’t say anything.

“He told me he was proud of me right before he died, too. Over the phone. Then I got to hear him choking on his own blood until he suffocated. We got there maybe two minutes after he stopped breathing.”

Hood was silent for a long moment. “That really sucks, Timbo. Watching your parent die, even if they weren’t always the best…that’s really hard. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Tim was listening for it, but he didn’t hear any mockery in Hood’s voice. He didn’t understand. What was Hood _playing at_?

Hood grabbed the mug, held it to Tim’s mouth. “Drink.”

Tim hesitated, but obeyed. Once he’d had a few more sips of tea—no use in jeopardizing that one small kindness—he snorted. “What the fuck do _you_ care? He’s dead, it’s over, you can’t use that against me. Why the hell are you pretending to even give a shit?”

Hood drummed his fingers against Tim’s leg, but didn’t answer. “You know B’s not going to die like that, right? The man would shrug off however many bullets through sheer willpower alone.”

Tim scoffed. “I’m not worried about B dying from some second-rate supervillain attack. I’m worried about him blowing his brains out or jumping off the top of the Gotham Arms without a grapple. Though I guess the _likeliest_ scenario would be he just lets himself fight until he’s too injured to properly defend himself and then walks into a mob boss’s lair with no backup.”

A _long_ silence. “…Batman’s not suicidal.”

Tim couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. He tried to stop, but everything he did just made him laugh _more_ , hearty guffaws tearing themselves out of his chest. Finally, he got himself somewhat under control, tears leaking down his face. “Yeah, right.”

“Bull-fucking-shit. No way is Batman suicidal.”

Tim chuckled and shook his head at Hood’s ignorance. “Maybe not right _now_.” He cocked his head, thinking. If he died here, would _his_ death put Bruce back over that edge? “I guess he didn’t go off the deep end when Steph died, so he’ll probably be fine if and when I go. It’s not like I’m his kid or anything. But after Jason?” Tim exhaled. “He was doing everything he could to follow Jason to the grave. Jason was _everything_ to B, and ever since he died, there’s been a part of B that wants to die too. A large part.”

“That’s a load of crap if I’ve ever heard one. Jason meant _nothing_ to Bruce. He’d barely been gone six months when Bruce replaced him with _you_. You should know; you were there.”

“Yeah, I _was_ there,” Tim snapped. “Which is how I know how _wrecked_ B was. And I didn’t replace _Jason._ I stepped in and played _Robin_. For the symbol of it, and to keep B from killing himself. And even _that_ B fought tooth and nail. He spent _months_ trying to drive me away. I wasn’t _Jason Todd_ , I wasn’t his _son,_ and I never could be. He made _that_ very clear. That’s fine though, I had my own parents, and Jason was way better than I ever could be anyway. No one could have replaced him. I just…tried my best not to let his legacy fall apart, I guess.”

Hood scoffed. “Your story’s holes have holes, Replacement. How the fuck did you become Robin in the first place if Bruce was trying to drive you away?”

Tim shrugged and squirmed in Red Hood’s grip. Could the man _not_ hold him so fucking tight? “I’ve known that Bruce Wayne was Batman since I was nine, back when Dick was still Robin. I used to follow them around, take pictures. Then Jason became Robin, and he was…amazing. Dick was flashier, sure, and better at the whole ‘creepy laughter from the darkness’ shtick, but he and B were already fighting pretty much constantly at that point. They weren’t a good team anymore. But Jason? Jason was the _best_ at being Robin.”

Tim grinned, the memory of his favorite Robin warming him. “He had this _joy_ about him, and he _cared_ , and him caring made B care too. B can get trapped in the big picture, statistics, and forget there are real people who actually matter on the ground. Jason made him see them. Jason brought him _light._ And then Jason died and it was like all the light went with him. B got crazy reckless, he stopped holding back, he beat random muggers half to death and let himself get knocked about and injured in the process. He and Nightwing got captured by Two-Face and blown up. They were going to die, suffocate under the rubble, so Agent A let me borrow one of Jason’s old suits. He and I fought off Two-Face and dug Batman and Nightwing out.”

Tim’s lips thinned as he remembered. “The _first_ thing B did when he got out of the rubble was he ripped by domino off and said, ‘ _You’re not Robin. There is no more Robin_. _One boy died wearing that costume. I’m not taking that risk a third time.’_ ”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I think the only reason B finally gave in was that I promised it would be like a business relationship, our Batman-Robin deal. And he knew that Batman needed a Robin.”

Hood was obviously thinking about Tim’s story, tapping his thumbagainst Tim’s bicep where he held him restrained. “Let me get this straight: you say you were trailing Batman and Robin for _years_ , and he never knew about it. Nuh-uh. Not buying it. You _can’t_ be that good.”

“I am,” he said, simply. This was one area that Tim had no doubts in.

Hood shook his head. “He _let_ you find him, let you come to him. It couldn’t be too easy or you would have been suspicious. But I bet I know what he said once you’d been lured in. That you had the talent to make a _difference_ in Gotham. That he needed someone he could _trust_ in his war on crime. That you were _one of a kind_. The light to his darkness. _Robin_ , the Boy Wonder.” Hood’s voice was bitter through the mechanical filter.

“It wasn’t like that, Hood.”

“It _was_ ,” Hood insisted. “That’s what he _does_ , Replacement. He takes in naive, _idiotic_ little boys and makes them think they could matter, and then he sends them off to die in his endless war. Jason Todd died thinking that he _mattered_ , that he was _loved_ , that Batman would come _rescue him_.” Scorn dripped through every word. “He was _wrong_. He never mattered, he was never loved, and Batman was _never_ going to rescue him. And now—despite your protests that you never expected him to care about you—you’ve fallen into the exact same trap. You’ll be similarly disappointed.”

Tim twisted up to glare at Hood’s helmet. “What is your _problem_ with Jason? Are you jealous or something?”

A snort. “No.”

“Are you sure? You should be. He was a million times the person you could ever dream of being.”

A slow exhale that Tim was certain accompanied an eye roll behind that faceless mask. “You never even _met_ the guy, Replacement. Stalking someone over the rooftops doesn’t mean you know _shit_. For all you know, he could have been a shitty person outside the mask.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know? Tell me _one thing_ about Jason Todd that has nothing to do with Robin.”

Tim jut out his jaw. “He liked reading. His favorites were 18th-century novels, like Jane Austen and stuff. He used to help people with their English essays, if they asked. Even if they weren’t his friends. He had a favorite gargoyle, the one on the northwest corner of that church with no name on Riverside and Morstan Street. And that’s not a Robin thing because it was his favorite even _before_ he was Robin, and he named it Charlie. His favorite food was chili dogs, and his favorite ice cream was Neapolitan. He liked helping A-Agent A in the kitchen, and Agent A trusted him to use the stove correctly. His favorite hero was Wonder Woman, but he collected Green Lantern merch. B thought it was just because GL annoys him so much. Um,” Tim tried to think of other non-Robin things about Jason. He was good with kids? But that was mainly a Robin thing, him comforting kids.

Red Hood was staring at him. “How the fuck do _you_ know all that shit?”

Tim scowled. “I know things.”

“Yeah, sure, but _how_? How the fuck do you know what B’s theory on the whole Green Lantern shtick was? Did B—Did B _talk_ about—about Jason? _B?_ The most uncommunicative bastard to ever grace the earth?”

“ _No_.” Tim glowered. “Obviously not. I snuck in and hacked B’s files on Jason. So I wouldn’t fuck up and remind him too bad.”

“He had _files_?” Hood cut off that thought and muttered to himself, “What am I saying, of course he had files. Of _course_ he had files. But why the fuck would he put— _ice cream_? _Charlie_ was in it? The, the Green Lantern thing—how did—how the fuck did _B_ even know about why, why—?” Hood cut himself off, thoughts obviously spiralling. “What the _fuck,_ Replacement?”

Tim stared at the faceless blank helmet above him, mind racing. A hundred little pieces suddenly clicking together. The Green Lantern band-aid stuck on his arm. _Pretty sure you had nothing to do with my death, Replacement._ The frankly creepy level of knowledge Hood had about the Batfam. _This is what happens to Robins_. The familiarity with Titans Tower. _Charlie was in it?_ The insistance on calling Tim ‘Replacement.’ _B takes in naive, idiotic little boys and makes them think they could matter._ The scorn and the bitterness in his voice whenever he mentioned the second Robin. _Jason Todd died thinking that he mattered, that he was loved, that Batman would come rescue him. He was_ _wrong_.

Tim stared at the mask above him, mind racing, pulse rocketing in his neck, and it wasn’t possible, it was absolutely insane, but it _made sense_ , it made a horrible, twisted kind of sense. “Jason?” he asked.

Silence.

“ _Jason?_ ” Tim pressed, more desperate, more certain. He still couldn’t move his arms, but he pressed himself against Hood’s armored torso. “You’re back. You’re back. You’re _alive_. B will be so happy. Oh my God, _Alfie_ will be so—”

“ _Stop_.” Hood’s voice was low and dangerous, even through the voice modulator. His grip around Tim was painfully tight, bruising. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know shit about shit, Replacement. Jason Todd is dead. He’s _dead_.”

“Really? Because you feel pretty alive to me.”

Tim suddenly found himself flipped and slammed into the concrete floor, Hood— _Jason_ —on top of him, knee to neck. Tim’s head snapped back, and he blinked against stars and blackness.

Everything felt unreal as Hood reached up and unbuckled his helmet, tossed it aside. Distantly, Tim heard the clang of metal on concrete.

And there— _there_ —Jason Todd’s face hovered above him. Older, leaner. A white streak through his hair. Eyes glowing _green._ But undeniably _Jason._

That face drew closer to his own, spots of light and black blinking all around. “You don’t know me, Replacement,” hissed Jason-fucking-Todd. “I’m going to kill you. Slowly. Painfully. Whatever misplaced hero-worship bullshit you have going on ain’t gonna save you. It doesn’t matter what you think you know about a dead boy. He’s fucking _dead_.”

“ _How?_ ” Tim gasped out, head spinning.

“Crowbar and an explosion, Replacement. Don’t tell me you know all that shit about Charlie but don’t have the basic facts of how I died.” His face twisted in bitter rage.

That wasn’t what he’d asked. “ _You’re back_ ,” Tim tried to clarify. The edges of the room were closing in on him, all thoughts drifting away into the black void of nothingness that flashed in and out all around him. There was— He couldn’t think. A face above him. He knew—he knew that face. That was a safe face. “ _Robin_ ,” he breathed.

Tim relaxed, letting himself drop into the abyss pressing around him. Robin was here. Robin would keep him safe. Tim could finally let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jack Drake’s Gun & Last Words**
> 
> This is a divergence from canon—when Jack Drake dies in Identity Crisis Vol. 1 #5, he is sent the gun along with a note warning him about the hit on his life as part of a plot. But I like my version better, so that’s how it is here. I guess he still could have been sent that gun, and just taught Tim how to shoot with a different gun.
> 
> Jack *is* on the phone with Tim when he dies (same issue), and tells Tim that he loves him, that he's incredibly proud of him, that it's not his fault, and that everything he does is worth it. Which, you know, despite his generally shitty parenting, aren’t horrible last words.
> 
> **Batman’s first words to Tim**
> 
> …were indeed: “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Robin. There is no more Robin.” after ripping off Tim’s mask.
> 
> “One boy died wearing that costume. I’m not taking that risk a third time.” came a few panels later, after Alfred tried to convince Bruce that Tim could be useful. (Batman #442—A Lonely Place of Dying)
> 
> **Jason’s Gargoyle**
> 
> In New 52 canon, Jason-as-Robin has a favorite gargoyle that he goes to when he’s upset, enough so that Batman knows to look for him there after a fight (as per a flashback in Red Hood and The Outlaws vol. 2, #6), and Jason later refers to that gargoyle as “his best friend growing up” (Red Hood and The Outlaws vol. 2, #8). As far as I know, the gargoyle does not have a canon name, but let me know if he does!
> 
> **Jason’s Speech**
> 
> A lot of Jason’s speech is taken directly from Teen Titans Vol. 3 #29, when Jason sneaks into the tower to beat up Tim.
> 
> Jason starts his very long monologue in that issue by describing how Tim found Batman and asking what Tim has that he doesn’t. Blah blah blah, he’s jealous and wants to test Tim. [As an aside, HOW does *JASON* know how Tim found Batman??? Like, he’s monologuing all about it, but it makes NO SENSE that JASON is the one delivering the audience exposition when he has no way to actually *know* how & why Tim became Robin. If anything, he should be asking Tim, and TIM should deliver the exposition. So I fixed that here. You’re welcome.]
> 
> [Jason, while beating up Tim]: “You were so pleased with yourself, I’m sure, that you forgot who you were really dealing with. I know Bruce Wayne. If someone was trying to find out who Batman really was, if someone was trailing him for weeks—he’d know about it. You can’t be that good.”
> 
> [Tim, getting Jason good across the jaw]: “I am.”
> 
> Jason: “He let you find him. And I bet he said the same thing to you that he said to me, didn’t he? That you had the talent to make a difference in Gotham. That he needed someone he could trust in his war on crime. That you were one of a kind. The light to his darkness. Robin, the Boy Wonder.”
> 
> “Now…let me show you what the Joker did to me. And let’s find out how tough you really are.”
> 
> [Blah blah blah, more back and forth.]
> 
> “Still. You do realize the whole idea of training a teenager to fight against something he’ll never eradicate is a mistake. It didn’t surprise anyone when I died. When I failed.”  
> [Ugh. My heart.]
> 
> ALSO, as a complete aside, in that issue, Jason is in his full Red Hood gear, and then he TEARS IT OFF to reveal a Robin costume underneath, green panties and all, and it just *cracks me up* every time. Like, Jason, in a v intimidating getup, body armour, leather jacket, combat boots: “BEHOLD, as I rip my shirt and tear away my stripper pants to reveal: my colorful circus leotard with NO PANTS. Tremble in fear, Replacement.”
> 
> **A Question for y’all**
> 
> Please let me know if anyone is actually interested in these endnote references to canon. <3 Canon obvs doesn’t matter, but I know a lot of people in this fandom haven’t read a lot (or any) of the comics (I only started reading the comics because I got into it through fic), and these are just some tidbits that I find amusing and/or give context, that I think people might be interested in?? But idk if that’s actually true? I’ve been including issue numbers because I know I found comics super intimidating and had NO IDEA where the storylines that I was interested in from fic actually *were* in the comics, which stopped me from even trying to read them for a long time.  
> 
> 
> Take care of yourselves <3


	7. Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the standard tws apply, emphasis on the torture and suicidal thoughts in this one.

The tape came by mail, almost two weeks after Tim was kidnapped. Alfred brought it to the study, Dick trailing behind him.

“Master Bruce,” said Alfred. “This came in the morning post.” He held out a silver tray with an oversized envelope on it. One of those large yellow ones with built-in bubble wrap, a package of some kind inside. “I do not want to assume, but I have the distinct suspicion it might be related to Master Tim’s disappearance.”

It was only because Bruce had known Alfred for so long that he could read the distinct signs of worry and fear stamped across Alfred’s face.

Bruce stared at the envelope. Generic stamp, postal mark from Georgia, dated three days ago. He’d track it, but he was sure that lead was already cold. It was addressed to Timothy Drake, c/o Bruce Wayne, at the Manor’s address, handwritten in black Sharpie. Block letters. He didn’t recognize the handwriting.

Batman ended up taking it down to the cave, Alfred and Dick joining him. Oracle was at her father’s house, sleeping. Batman made the decision not to call her until Alfred’s suspicions were confirmed.

It was suspicious, and Batman was wary of a trap, but the truth was they’d run out of useful leads days ago—even Superboy hadn’t been able to trace Robin’s heartbeat. He was less practiced at it than Superman, true, but he knew Tim much better. Clark hadn’t been around the boy long enough to follow what he sounded like.

Superboy was certain that if Robin were anywhere unshielded on earth and talking, he would be able to find him. Which meant Tim was either not on earth, being kept somewhere that was shielded from a Kryptonian’s senses, or not talking.

If there was enough of him left to talk.

Maybe the package was a ransom message.

Maybe it was a bomb.

If it was a bomb, it would be stable—only triggered by some distinct and deliberate action. Otherwise, it would never have made it through the postal system.

Unless the stamps were fake.

Batman ran every test he could think of—fingerprints, chemical analysis, x-ray scans. Hacked into the USPS database. Nothing suspicious.

He opened the envelope. There was a VHS tape inside, encased in a plain white box. Who used _VHS_ tapes these days?

He added that to his list of ways to track down Hood. Or Hood’s employer. Where could you even _get_ VHS tapes now?

Alfred was already wheeling out an old VCR player. Bruce felt some small measure of smugness. He had been _right_ to keep multiple forms of outdated technology in the cave’s storerooms. He was not an unduly paranoid hoarder, _Alfred_.

Alfred narrowed his eyes at Bruce as if he knew exactly what Bruce was thinking.

Bruce huffed.

He checked the set-up to confirm it would copy the contents of the tape to a digital format, but that nothing was connected to any of the cave’s systems. He’d never heard of anyone transmitting a virus or a Trojan through a video cassette, but it was likely at least theoretically possible.

“You might want to leave. There is no reason for either of you to have to—”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right, B. Tim’s my little bro. I’m staying.”

“Indeed,” Alfred echoed. “We will both be remaining to provide any necessary physical, logistical, or emotional support that may be needed.”

They shouldn’t have to. Bruce should be strong enough to do this himself. It was _his_ fault that the Tower’s safety protocols were so obviously lacking, _his_ fault for letting Tim leave Gotham without him, _his_ fault for letting Tim fight crime in the first place. But he recognized a losing argument when he saw one, so he just gave in with a resigned grunt and pressed play.

For a moment, nothing, and then an image appeared on screen. The quality wasn’t great—equivalent to a home-movie from the mid-nineties—but what was very obviously _Tim_ appeared on-screen, and Bruce’s heart leapt.

Tim was passed out on a thin mattress, on what looked like a concrete floor. In the foreground, a large pair of boots, generic, black, dotted with dried speckles of blood just barely visible through the low-quality recording: Hood. Or an associate of his. Angle suggested he was sitting on the floor just out of frame, facing Tim. Concrete walls, nothing else visible in frame, no identifying features. The camera angle was low, looking up. Likely Red Hood had simply set a camcorder on the floor and let it run.

Tim was dressed in thin white underclothes—a tank top and shorts—and looked a bit roughed up. Batman tried to catalogue the injuries—bruises, scrapes, rope burn—but they all seemed superficial. Likely this tape had been made early on in his captivity. Tim’s frame was curled around a blanket, and Bruce _ached_ at how small and vulnerable he looked like that.

That was not Robin, Boy Wonder, crime fighter extraordinaire.

That was a child.

For five minutes, Tim just slept, unmoving except for the steady up and down of his breathing. Bruce wished he could reach through the screen, brush an errant lock of hair out of his face. Then Tim shifted, a small wince coming to his face as he groaned.

“About time you woke up.” That was definitely Red Hood, voice still masked in his helmet.

Tim’s eyes flew open, the rush of adrenaline and panic clear on his face for the entire half-second he got before Hood slammed into him, pinning him to the wall, forearm pressed into his throat.

Dick made an aborted choking noise, and Alfred tensed next to him. Batman pressed his lips together. Emotion was only a hindrance in this situation.

Hood kicked the mattress away and shifted his position so that Tim’s rapidly-reddening face was clearly visible. His limbs scrambled ineffectually, trying to seek out weak points, but Hood hadn’t left him any. Batman watched as Tim’s face shifted from fear to anger to determination to terror to despair. Tim twitched weakly, but his body couldn’t follow his brain’s orders anymore. He went limp and lifeless, and Bruce realized he was watching his son die.

Hood let up the pressure, letting Tim’s body slump into his waiting hand. And, miracle of all miracles, Tim gasped in a desperate breath, eyes open and unseeing. He was _alive._ Tim was _alive._

And then he was forced back up against the wall, struggling for air, slowly and painfully dying.

Batman forced himself to watch Hood, to look for tells, for clues, for anything. He was a showman, playing to the camera, but Batman didn’t think it was entirely show. Something about the tilt of his helmet, the way he leaned in too close. Hood was _enjoying_ this.

And Batman could do nothing.

It was agonizing. He knew, he _knew,_ this recording had to be several days old at the absolute earliest, likely over a _week_ old, and yet everything in him was screaming at him to dive through the screen and scoop up his son, beat the scum who was hurting him until death would be a mercy.

Some said Batman’s no-killing rule was a sign of weakness, a way he was too soft, too merciful. Batman knew better. There were worse things than death. And he would bring every single one of them to bear upon the Red Hood.

As soon as he found him.

Making this tape had been Hood’s last mistake.

Twenty-seven minutes later, Hood let Tim fall to the floor instead of catching him.

“Enjoy the warm-up, Replacement?” The glee in his voice confirmed Batman’s suspicion of sadism. But well-controlled sadism. He’d waited until he was out of the Tower, and Tim conscious and aware, before starting in on him. He’d wanted _time_ and _space_ to do whatever it was he wanted to do.

Tim lay shaking on the ground, too stunned to respond. But alive. _Still alive_.

Hood taunted Tim, mocking him over and over. _Replacement._ He’d called Tim that in the Tower as well. Their best guess was that it referred to Tim’s role as Robin, given that Hood had called him “Robin number three.” But why did Hood even _care_?

Was it as Barbara thought? Tim was a replacement for the Robin the Joker had killed, and Hood was a replacement for the Joker? Something about that didn’t feel quite right to Batman. Not necessarily _wrong_ , but not _enough_. Not to explain this.

The anger in Hood’s voice, even through the modulator, as he came up with increasingly sadistic threats, that was _personal._ The _joy_ he was obviously exulting in as he electrocuted Tim, as he kicked in his ribs, as he kept brutalizing the defenseless child in front of him, that was _personal_ _and unhinged_.

Batman was sure he would have remembered anyone with that degree of obsession with any of his Robins. There was a certain level of insanity and obsession that you just couldn’t hide, not for any length of time. And this had obviously been planned for some time.

Joker certainly fit the bill, but that was _it_. And Joker was in Arkham, Joker was still confined to a hospital bed, Joker had had no contact with the outside world in _months._ He hadn’t even known that someone else was using the name ‘Red Hood.’ Batman hadn’t mentioned his missing Robin when he interrogated Joker, but he knew Joker would not have been able to shut up about it if he even had a _hint_ about what was happening.

Which left him with no leads except the gruesome tape still playing in front of him.

It went on for two hours, no cuts, no visible edits. Batman forced himself to watch it, to pay attention to every detail, even as his companions stepped away for breaks.

He learned nothing useful. Hood was well-prepared, well-supplied. He hated Robin for being Robin, was planning on killing him. All things they already knew.

Occassionally Hood would step out of frame to grab a new implement of torture. He was never gone for more than a few seconds, and Tim never had enough time to recover any kind of defense. His taunts told them only that he wasn’t planning to let Tim enjoy the mercy of a quick death.

_That was good_ , Batman had to tell himself, _it gave them time to find him_.

Dick whimpered, as Tim on the tape let out a particularly desperate scream. Batman had locked Bruce away about five minutes in, because Bruce was could not handle this recording, but Batman was there. Batman could offer no solace except to reach up to grab his old partner’s hand, grip in tight in a promise of retribution. Alfred’s hand settled on Batman’s shoulder in its own deathgrip, tight enough that it should have brought pain, but Batman could only take grim comfort from its steady weight.

Batman’s stomach sank when Hood returned with a medical kit. He knew well the type of pain that could be implemented with a well-placed scalpel. But instead of continuing the torture, Hood started patching Tim up, movements clinical, removed.

“ _Why are you doing this_?” Tim gasped out, confusion warring with agony on his face, which told Batman that Tim also had no idea why Hood had taken him. That likely ruled out any personal enemies.

Hood’s answer gave no further illumination, only a re-tread of threats he’d made a dozen times already.

“But _why_?” Tim’s eyes were dazed and unfocused with pain. Batman was unsure if he was even aware of the camera. He hadn’t tried to send any messages that Batman could detect.

The Red Hood stilled at the question, and Batman dared hope that they’d get some kind of explanation. Or at least a clue. _Something._

Anything.

“Because you’re Robin,” he said. “This is what happens to Robins. They get kidnapped, and tortured, and die.”

_Jason_. It had been all he could think of since Tim had been kidnapped. Stephanie, although she wasn’t his child and she’d been Spoiler when she died. But mostly Jason, dying alone in a warehouse far from home, trusting in Batman and Batman had failed. _Jason_ , whose life he would still give his for in a heartbeat.

“But I don’t _understand_ ,” Tim on the tape was saying.

Batman understood. This was his punishment for failing to save Jason. But Tim should never have been dragged into it. _Tim_ had done nothing wrong. This was Batman’s fault. Bruce’s.

The tape abruptly cut off, and the screen was nothing but black.

Nobody breathed.

“Is that it?” Dick asked. “Was there any more? There has to be more, right? He wouldn’t just send…”

The tape ran out, static playing on the monitor.

Batman rose to eject it. There had to be something he could get from the tape, something that would lead him to Hood. A sound in the background, a hint to a location or identity. _Something._

The screen flashed back on, and Batman froze, startled. Apparently there _was_ more. The video now showed Red Hood alone. He was sitting on a wooden chair, up against a plain concrete wall. Nothing that could help identify the location.

Hood leaned forward on his knees, helmet angled down to face the camera. He stayed like that for several seconds, an interminably long time. “He died,” said Hood, simply.

No.

_No_.

“Day two.” He held up two fingers, tutted. “Heart failure. I guess the electricity was a bit much.”

Hood drummed his fingers against his thigh holsters. “Don’t worry; I brought him back. I’m not giving him up _that_ easily.”

Batman _growled_.

Hood laughed, an eerie, cruel thing, distorted by the helmet. “I expect he’ll probably kick it a few more times before I make it permanent. I think I could probably draw it out a few months. Maybe a year. Two years? That seems a bit excessive. Eh, I’ll figure it out.” He shrugged and leaned back, crossed an ankle over his knee.

“When I’m done, I’ll bury him. I’ll get him a nice coffin, don’t worry. Sturdy. Lead-lined. If I’m feeling merciful, he’ll be dead _before_ he goes in it. Doubt it, though. Either way, I’ll put him into the ground, set up a nice grave. Unmarked. You won’t find the body. Feel free to detective away to your heart’s content, poke through all my shit in Gotham. I’m not there, and I’m not coming back. I’ve got what I came for.”

He made a monstrous sound that it took Batman a second to identify as a yawn, distorted by his voice filter.

“Anyway, this isn’t a ransom, or a demand, or anything. Just thought you’d like to know what Robin Number Three is doing with the rest of his days. He’ll be in pain, screaming, wishing he was dead and praying that you’ll come. Maybe he’ll even believe it.” Hood shrugged.

“But you won’t, at least not in time to save him, because you never do. What’s that saying—once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern?” He let that sit in the air.

Then he cracked his shoulders, worked out a kink in his neck. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time, so I won’t contact you again. Bye.” He got up and reached for the camera to turn it off.

This time the tape really did run out, cutting to the screech of static that did not stop.

* * *

Bruce sat on the brittle brown grass, letting it and the dirt beneath stain his pants. The whole suit might need to be thrown out. That would be acceptable—it was an eyesore, a pale pink velvet monstrosity that fit Brucie Wayne like a glove. _It’s too bright for the season anyway_ , Bruce thought, and wished he could delete all knowledge of fashion and _seasons_ from his brain as frivolous and irrelevant. His mind should not be thinking such thoughts while Jason was dead and Tim was missing. 

He drew a thumb along the granite inscription, _Jason Peter Todd._ Would he need to order a matching one for _Timothy Jackson Drake_? Tim’s grave might have to be empty, a hollow sham. At least Jason’s had the dignity of his body, resting safe beneath the earth.

_He’s not dead yet_ , Bruce had to tell himself, and he didn’t believe it. Jason was dead, and Tim was gone, and he had no way to bring either of them back. No leads. No hope.

Nothing.

All he could do was join them.

“God, Jason,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you again. After everything— _never again_ , I promised. Never again. I’ll make sure of it this time.”

The stone was rough underneath his calloused fingers.

The wind whipped through his suit like a scourge.

Bruce Wayne sat at his son’s grave, and did not let himself cry.

The comm in his ear clicked on. “B. Do you have a minute?” Oracle.

He said nothing, but he did not cut the line. The effort of raising his hand to his ear seemed too monumental to achieve in that moment.

“We need to talk about Tim. And the outside world.” A pause. “Do we say anything? Publicly? Do we report him missing?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, and he pressed his thumb more firmly into the engraved _J_ of Jason’s name.

“Currently, Bruce Wayne is completely unconnected to Tim Drake, so it _would_ be odd for you to put out a press release or report him missing or anything. But also…you might be the only one who _can_ do it. His parents are dead. Dana’s in an inpatient facility. He’s dropped out of school. He doesn’t have a job. He owns his apartment through a shell company, no rent or mortgage. Besides his fake uncle, who I think we can all agree we _don’t_ want talking to anybody, no one outside of the nighttime business will notice. But he _did_ stay with you while his dad was in that coma. It’s plausible you would check in with him from time to time.”

Silence.

“Bruce?”

Bruce took the comm out of his ear and crushed it between his fingers. Barbara didn’t try to call him back.

He sat on the deadened grass with Jason’s grave until it grew dark.

Then he kept sitting, staring into nothing.

It was freezing cold. They might get snow soon.

Victor Fries would be happy about that. Batman should be preparing for his celebration, and for the inevitable holiday free-for-all.

He couldn’t summon the energy to care.

Maybe he would sleep out here. With Jason.

His phone rang. Bruce _knew_ he had put it on silent. Oracle. _Again._

He clenched his fist, but answered. Barbara likely had a reason for forcing the call.

“ _What_.”

“Uh, hey B.” That was Nightwing, not Oracle. “Nobody’s hurt, nobody’s in danger, this probably isn’t related to Tim, but we have um, a bit of a situation over here, and you should probably get back to the manor.”

Batman was already moving, the clarity of _mission_ and _adrenaline_ carrying him forward and away from the graveyard. “Report.”

“This isn’t a secure line?”

Batman growled as he threw himself into his car, putting the phone on speaker. “My civilian phone is secure enough for a sitrep.”

“Hypocrite.”

“ _Dick_.”

“Okay, okay. This might be the kind of thing that’s better discussed in person, though.”

Batman let the silence hang expectantly.

“Fine, whatever! If you crash, it’s not on me.”

“Hn.”

“We have an intruder in the cave. Contained, not actively hostile, and we’re looking into confirming their identity.”

“Which is?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. The DNA analysis was a match, though.”

“A known entity, then?”

“Not going to spill the deets over the phone.”

It was a known entity. Necessarily so, if they’d had DNA samples on hand to compare. Dick was simply being willfully obstinate.

“I’ve got Alfie and Barb backing me up on this, B. I’ll tell you when you get here.”

Unacceptable, but there was nothing Batman could do about it now. “How did they get in?”

“Back entrance, had the codes.”

“Hng. Are they authorized to have the codes?”

“Technically, yes. If they are who they say they are.”

That limited the pool significantly. Not even _Selina_ had the codes to the Batcave. Primary candidates included Tim—although Dick had said it was unrelated—Clark, Diana, and Leslie Thompkins. Everyone else was either dead or evil.

“Why is there doubt?”

“Well, they’re supposed to be dead.”

_Jason?_ was the first thought that crossed Bruce’s mind, a sprig of desperate hope that he ruthlessly crushed down. Jason was long gone and would never return to him; Bruce didn’t deserve that happiness.

“Do I need a mask?” He had a few spare dominoes and a full suit in a hidden compartment in the car, but that would take extra seconds to don. If this was someone who theoretically had access to the cave, then they also likely had theoretical knowledge of their identities.

“Not unless you want to. They are well aware of civilian identities.”

Bruce grunted acknowledgement and swung the car down the road that led to the main entrance of the Batcave. He parked on a dime behind the two Batmobiles currently out, and exited the car.

Dick, Barbara, and Alfred were already there, crowded around a holding cell. Bruce strode towards them and they parted like the Red Sea.

“Hi, Bruce.” The voice was familiar, female, and angry. A smile through clenched teeth.

Bruce pulled to a stop right outside the holding cell and glared at its occupant.

“Yeah, yeah, I came all the way back from the dead, it’s miraculous or whatever. But I have a very important question for you, and you’re gonna answer it honestly.” Stephanie Brown leaned up against the glass and met him glare for glare. “Where. _The fuck._ Is Tim?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STEPH IS HERE!!!! REJOICE!!!
> 
> By the way, [this](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/fd/9c/5a/fd9c5a5f50574ac9f9f63bc601b2bd10.jpg) is the suit that Bruce is wearing, except B’s is not Tuxedo cut and doesn’t have the black trim. It’s just pastel pink velvet all the way through. I fucking love that look, and Jason Momoa *rocks* it. 
> 
> B also rocks it, despite his negative self-talk.
> 
> I personally subscribe to my own personal headcanon that Brucie Wayne is a fashion icon, but Batman pretends to hate everything that’s not shades of black and gray. In reality, though? In Bruce’s heart of hearts? B’s fashion sense is worse than Dick’s. Bruce LOVED the Robin outfit. He thought it was a “bold choice, distinctive.” He approved of Discowing. Even as Batman, he designs his cape and cowl for maximum awe-effect—not to scare criminals, but for the *drama* and the *fashion.* Seriously, the man had a perfectly serviceable set of armour, and he decided to add customized fetish gear, ears, and a cape on top. 
> 
> Sure, in OUR world, Thierry Mugler was probably partially inspired by Batman, but in MY headcanon, Batman saw [this masterpiece](https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lfywldieFF1qgv0ixo1_r1_1280.jpg) in the Fall/Winter 1996-97 Runway Show, probably slept with the model, and decided, “Ah, yes. This is what I shall wear to Fight Crime.” Or it may have been [this look](https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m196rkrFUL1qbg2pgo1_500.jpg). Or [this one](https://vg-images.condecdn.net/image/QXe96NQz5DW/crop/810/f/00300big.jpg). Or [this travesty of a bat-ears headdress](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ff/2e/3d/ff2e3df05c3a6d2c936e82eb1701d40e.jpg). Or [this spiky black & yellow get-up](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/5f/05/3a/5f053a9704cbbca6c55ca950e85dddb3.jpg). Or [this banger](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EE-nsQSVUAIFjz5.jpg) from the Alexander McQueen autumn/winter 2002–3 runway collection. My point is: Bruce had an orgy with a bunch of models in Haute Couture Goth Fashion, and now he dresses Like That.  
> Why yes, [Selina WAS *also* at the Fall/Winter 1996-97 Thierry Mugler Runway Show](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/88/ef/94/88ef94a114bae0ad920d9dab27727683.jpg), why do you ask?
> 
> edit: fixed the links


	8. Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so so much for the wonderful wonderful comments!!! I will reply to them, but--between this and my other fics--I have a backlog of several hundred comments to reply to rn and it will be slow going. Know that I read every single one of them and they bring me joy at a time when joy is often hard to find <3
> 
> All the usual TWs apply :)

Tim was fighting a war. He had started from a position of weakness: ambushed; injured; and stripped of his usual resources, but now Tim knew who he was fighting, and Hood— _Jason_ —would be unwise to count him out. Oh, he couldn’t summon anything as flashy or initially devastating as Hood’s ambush-kidnap-torture combo, but that was fine. This was a war of attrition.

And Tim was going to win.

He had two days to plan after figuring out that Hood was Jason. Or, he thought it was two days. There was no real way to tell. He woke up on his stupid floor mattress, alone, with a sore neck but otherwise unharmed. Jason was nowhere to be found.

It gave Tim a lot of time to think. He went over everything he knew, everything he suspected, and formulated theories. He made shivs of dubious quality and sequestered them around the room. He drank the bottled water and the nutrient shakes. His bowels were not happy about him suddenly switching to an all-liquid diet,but there wasn’t much he could do about that. On day two, he forced some of an MRE down his throat. It was disgusting and painful, and Tim added it to the list of Jason’s sins that he would pay him back for.

Because Tim was going to escape, he was going to get his revenge upon Jason for the whole kidnap-torture thing, and he was going to bring Jason back to the family. The order of operations was flexible, but Tim was formulating the beginning of a plan that would allow him to do all three.

Jason definitely had some kind of ‘came back from the dead wrong and is now a villain’ scenario going on, so Tim wasn’t particularly worried about going all-out fighting him from a moral perspective. He’d need to, in order to escape, but any damage Tim did could be fixed when they got to the ‘bring Jason back to the family’ stage. As long as neither of them _killed_ the other, it should all be fine. Eventually.

Honestly, even if Jason killed Tim, it would probably still be fine. Tim couldn’t imagine any of the Bats turning _Jason_ away for that.

As long as they knew it was Jason.

But Tim didn’t particularly want to die, so Plan A was escape using whatever force necessary—short of lethal force, obviously—and then get reinforcements. Jason seemed to have a _thing_ about B, and Bruce wasn’t the most emotionally literate at the best of times, so probably Dick. And Alfred. Definitely Alfred.

He might have to keep the knowledge of Jason’s resurrection from Bruce for a little bit, at least until Alfred and Dick talked to Jason, so that B didn’t just go blundering in and fuck it all up.

Plus he would need to confirm that it was actually Jason, with, like, lab tests and stuff. But Tim was 99.8% sure that it was. Nothing else made sense.

But he could worry about all that more after he escaped. The escape part of the plan was actually going pretty well, considering the absolutely insane level of security Jason had implemented.

Key to his escape, Tim had figured out that there were coil springs in the bed-frame of the couch. He spent hours pretending to sleep with his hands tucked under the couch cushions, sawing away at the fabric and metal until his shivs snapped and his fingers bled.

But in the end, he got the wire. Now he had _lock picks._

Sometimes the lights would go off, and Tim would be left in darkness, the only sign he had that Jason hadn’t forgotten about him. The times were far enough apart that they _could_ correspond with normal day-night cycles, but Tim didn’t have any way of actually telling that. Jason could just be an asshole, messing with Tim’s sense of time.

Scratch that. Jason was _definitely_ an asshole. The only question was how exactly his assholery manifested. Tim pondered the question as he paced, drank his stupid sludge shakes, and ran through various body-weight workouts and katas.

Once, when the lights were off, Tim leaned his back against the door and picked the lock, hands hidden behind his body as he pretended to try and push it open. He felt the lock open with a soft _click._ There were no alarms Tim could hear. He _knew_ the door swung outwards, but even pushing on it with all his weight, it didn’t budge an inch. No other locks accessible from inside the cell—there must be something blocking it from the other side. Another door, a bar, a deadbolt, something like that. _Fuck._

Okay. Hood had to be able to get out whenever he came in. That meant that the outer barrier—whatever it was—wouldn’t be in place when Hood was in the cell. Tricky. Tim was going to have to time this _very_ carefully.

Tim re-locked the door, and went to lie on his mattress, heart pounding. He’d done the best he could to hide his actions from the cameras, but who knew how carefully Jason was watching. He _was_ an ex-Robin. He would know better than anyone how resourceful they could be.

Tim didn’t sleep a wink that “night,” but Hood didn’t come in, didn’t confiscate Tim’s makeshift knives and picks. When the lights went off again, Tim dared to hope his plan had gone undiscovered.

Now it was just a waiting game.

Hood returned on what Tim thought might be the third day after Tim had figured out his identity. He walked through the door, helmeted once again, and Tim narrowed his eyes at him from his perch on the still-suspicious-but-very-comfy couch.

“So,” said Tim. “Did you come back wrong, were you thrown in a Lazarus Pit, or were you somehow kidnapped by a villain and B didn’t notice?” Those were the only three options that made sense.

Hood startled in the doorway, a tiny movement that Tim would have missed if he hadn’t honed his skills trying to read B. “Not that it’s any of your business, Replacement, but it was all three.”

Tim couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or telling the truth. Unhelpful. “And now you’re, what, back from the dead and here for your bloody revenge?”

“Bingo. It’s time for torture, Timmy!”

Tim’s heart jumped in his chest, but he refused to let the spike of fear show on his face. “You’re an asshole,” he said instead.

“Wow, you’re only just figuring that out? And they say you’re the smart one.”

“They do? Who says that?”

“Obviously no one who actually knows what they’re talking about.”

Tim rolled his eyes.

“Okay, up and at ’em, Timantha. ’Tis the season for suffering and all that.”

“Oh, is it December already?” By Tim’s count, it should be December 2nd, but he wasn’t sure about that by any means at all.

Hood shrugged. “It could be. Up.”

“Yeah, no. I’m not willingly going to get tortured.”

“Then you’ll go unwillingly.”

Tim refused to be intimidated. This was _Jason_ , who was scarcely older than him, and Tim was _Robin_. He ate threats for breakfast. Or something like that.

“And how’s that gonna work? Are you, Jason Todd, the Big Bad Red Riding Hood, going to drag me, Timothy Drake—an unarmed and unarmored _kid_ —and what, beat me up? Choke me again? Electrocute me? Really?”

“Yup.” Hood popped the ‘p.’ “That’s exactly what’s gonna happen.”

Tim hadn’t really expected an appeal to morality to work, given how his week had gone so far, but he was still disappointed. “So…whatever happened to you in the last three years has made you the type of person who’s cool with torturing children for shits and giggles.”

“You’re not a kid, Replacement. You’re _Robin._ ”

“Yes, and I’m pretty sure I’m also a minor.”

“Barely. You’re _sixteen,_ Timbourine.”

“Yeah,” said Tim. “That’s a minor.”

“That’s older than I was when I died. You survived a whole year over me.”

That wiped the smile off Tim’s face. But Jason’s own horrific death didn’t give new-and-not-improved Jason free license to torture-murder _Tim_. “And what, you’re jealous that you never got a sweet sixteen?”

“I’m not _jealous_ of you, Replacement.”

“Kinda seems like you are.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not getting up.”

“Fine by me.” Hood reached for his holsters, and Tim only _just_ managed to duck behind the couch as a bullet sped through the air where he had been.

“Did you just try to _shoot_ me?” This was going to be a lot more difficult if Jason wasn’t planning on getting up close and personal.

“That was your only warning, Replacement.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“C’mon, Timberly. We’ve already covered this. I came back wrong, was dunked in a Lazarus Pit, and kidnapped by evil villains. Keep up.”

“Were you actually, though?”

Another gunshot, and Tim hissed as a burning pain grazed his arm.

“Couch ain’t bulletproof, Tim-Tam-a-Lam.”

Tim clapped one hand over the thankfully shallow graze. “Watch where you’re shooting that thing!” he called. “You could have killed me.”

“And I will,” Hood promised. “But give me a little credit, Timmy. I can _aim_.”

“You can’t _see_ me!”

“Yes, I can.” The sound of tapping on metal. “Thermal imaging, Timbo. It’s not just a fashion statement.”

Jesus fuck. Okay. Tim curled as small as he could behind the arm of the couch, which provided the best cover from oncoming fire. He dug out his spoon-shiv from where he’d hidden it in the upholstery. “Why are you shooting at _me_ anyway? Shouldn’t you be going after the Joker or something? You know, the person who actually killed you?”

“ _Don’t fucking talk about the Joker.”_ Where before Jason’s voice had been playful—if sadistically so—now that was pure rage in his voice. “ _You don’t fucking get to talk about him_.”

“Why the hell not?” Tim tried to judge whether it would be worth it to try and duck into the toilet alcove. Probably not. It would be a long dash through wide-open space, and likely wouldn’t provide any more cover than the couch. “You’re the one trying to reenact his murderscapades on me.”

“I am _nothing_ like the _him_.” The next shot clipped his other shoulder.

Tim grunted and let the momentum carry him to the floor. Lying flat on the ground was basically the closest thing to cover he could get right now. “I’ve got two bullet wounds, five electrical burns, and a shitton of bruises that say otherwise.”

“Oh, _that_? That’s nothing, Replacement. You haven’t experienced anything close to _real_ pain yet; you can’t even imagine the _agonies_ of—”

“Oh my God, you’re villain monologuing. Can we skip the clichés and get to the actual fricking point.”

“ _Cliché_?” Hood sputtered. “Did you just call me—?! I’ll show _you_ cliché, you flat-assed miscreant.” Hood marched around the couch and stalked towards Tim, holstering his gun as he did so.

Tim scrambled backwards, one hand clutching his more-wounded shoulder, the other dangling at an awkward angle to cover the shiv hidden between his forearm and thigh.

Hood grabbed for Tim’s hair, but Tim ducked under his grasp, closing the last bit of distance between them. In one smooth motion, he flipped his spoon-shiv into his hand and drove it as hard as he could up Jason’s wrist, through the small gap in the sleeve of his leather jacket. He felt a hot, wet rush of blood over his hand and the distinct feeling of something going _snap._

Then Hood’s other fist was crashing into him, and Tim went sprawling backwards, head ringing. Fuck, but Hood could pack a punch.

“Jesus fucking—what the _fuck_ , Replacement?” Blood was spurting out of Jason’s wrist, dripping down from his sleeve to the floor. Tim had hit the artery.

Tim was already sprinting towards the door, grabbing another of his stashed shivs on the way, and pulling his wire lock picks out of his hair from where he’d hidden them at the nape of his neck.

He was almost done picking the lock when the first shot went through his more-injured shoulder. His hand spasmed and dropped the picks, but they thankfully stayed inside the lock. Tim switched hands, turning, turning, _click._

_Bang._

The next shot hit him in the calf. Tim slumped forward, desperately putting all his weight on the door, pushing himself forward with his uninjured leg.

The door swung open, and Tim crashed through, falling on the ground just in time to miss another bullet. He scrambled out of the doorway—out of Jason’s sights—and oh, yeah. There was the bar: a heavy, iron thing on a fulcrum that no human would have a chance of moving from the inside. Tim dashed over to it and grabbed the end to swing it across the door and lock Jason inside. Fuck, it was heavy. He had to crouch under it and lift _up_ with his left arm—the less injured one—to have any hope of moving it.

Just as he got in position, the door crashed back open and Jason slammed into the hallway wall. With a curse, Tim dropped the bar and _ran_ , weaving unpredictably.

The now-open door actually provided decent enough cover for Tim to clear the hallway’s corner, but Tim couldn’t afford to slow down. He passed a bunch of closed doors, and didn’t even try to open any of them. _Come on, come on, come on…yes!_

Stairs. Sweet, beautiful stairs, leading up. Tim took them two at a time, adrenaline carrying him through the exhaustion and pain. At the top was another door that needed to be unlocked, but Tim made quick work of it before slamming it closed behind him.

He was in a house of some kind. Tim scanned for the room and found a cabinet nearby that would suit his purposes. He heaved it over to block the door. Okay. That should take Hood at least a few seconds to get through.

There wasn’t anyone rushing at him, so hopefully Jason had been here alone and there wouldn’t be a bunch of backup goons rushing him. Tim didn’t think he could take any backup goons right now.

He moved through the house like a hurricane, grabbing supplies as he went. Blanket—useful. Tie it into a bag. Bottle of water—useful. Half-full thermos—useful. Gun—useful. He stuck that into his waistband.

A quick glance out the window told him he was in the countryside, surrounded by trees covered in a light dusting of snow.

Tim tore through the house, looking for a computer or a phone or the keys to a vehicle. Living room—nothing. Kitchen—nothing. Bathroom—nothing. Bedroom—nothing. Other bathroom—nothing, and it looked like a bomb had gone off in there. The mirror lay in pieces on the floor, there were bullet holes everywhere, and the counter was _pulverized._

Finally, Tim found a small room full of electronics. Monitors, mainly showing Tim’s cell, but also the house he was currently in and the inside of a few warehouses filled with goons that Tim was pretty sure belonged to Black Mask. Headset, radio receivers, relay devices, VCR camera, and a bunch more technology. Tim couldn’t see Hood on any of the screens, which caused a pit to form in his stomach. That cabinet wouldn’t hold him long, and Tim had already taken too much time searching.

Finally— _finally_ —tucked away behind one of the monitors, holiest of all holies: a cellphone. Simple flip phone, a burner. Tim flipped it open and swore—no signal. Nothing in this room looked like it had an easy way to send an _outgoing_ message. Tim was sure he _could_ figure out how to do so, but that would take time, and Tim didn’t have any time.

He _did_ see a garage on one of the monitors. Hoping it was attached to the house, he kept trying doors until—yep, garage. Okay. One car—an old Chevy Impala, a monstrosity of a thing with its engine half on the floor, obviously in the middle of refurbishment.

And…a motorcycle. Tim winced as the thing shocked him when he tried to remove the panel to hot wire it. _Fuck_. Okay. Tim honestly wasn’t sure if he could even drive a bike right now—his calf was beginning to spasm around the bullet wound, and his right arm wasn’t quite obeying his brain anymore.

Tim grabbed a hammer in his less-wounded left hand and stabbed the claw end into the motorcycle’s front tire. It started to deflate with a tired squeal, and Tim decided that was good enough. Hood would have to at least change the tire before coming after him.

Tim limped to the garage door, and _fuck,_ it needed a key code to open. Okay. Okay. He could do this. He pried the keypad open, grabbed wires with shaking hands—

“Going somewhere, Replacement?”

Tim spun, pulling Hood’s gun out of his waistband as he did.

“You gonna shoot me, Timbo?”

“You shot me,” Tim pointed out. “Four times.” His hand was shaking, whether from blood loss or pain or misplaced adrenaline, he didn’t know.

“Yeah, I did do that.” Hood sounded mildly regretful, like he’d done something embarrassing while drunk, instead of _shooting Tim four times._ He was standing steady, bandages poking out of his red-soaked sleeve, though he blurred a bit in and out in Tim’s vision. “How abouts I patch you up, and we’ll call it even?”

“That is…not how that works.” The rush of adrenaline was beginning to fade, and Tim could feel the world getting shaky all around him as he came down.

Hood just shrugged. “That’s fine. You can hold a grudge; I’ll hold a grudge; we can all just be one great grudgeful family trying to get _undying_ revenge upon each other.”

“You’re not funny, Hood.”

“Ouch.” Hood sighed. “Put down the gun, Timmy.”

“No.”

Hood took a step forward.

“I’ll shoot,” Tim warned. He thought of his future self, the mass murderer. _Batman with guns_. He had it in him to do this.

“Uh-huh, sure.”

Tim thought of his father, facing down Captain Boomerang as he died. The world was spinning. “I _will_ ,” he insisted.

Hood ignored his words and continued walking towards him.

Tim thought of Batman, of Bruce, and his _hatred_ of guns. His fear. His devastating and destructive love for his lost son. How absolutely _wrecked_ he would be if he ever found out that Jason had died again. That _Tim_ had killed him. That Tim had _killed._ He thought of Darla’s corpse cooling beneath his hands. He thought of Jason the first time, dying alone and abandoned.

He couldn't do it.

_Fuck._

He couldn't do it.

But there was still the Jason in the room with him now, risen from the grave. Jason, who might not even be able to be called Jason anymore. Jason, who was going to kill him slowly. Jason, in front of him, somehow inevitable.

Tim’s fate was already decided. Jason wouldn't give him another chance to escape. The only question left was how Tim would go.

He had to do it.

He couldn't do it.

He had to do _something_.

Maybe if he got him mad enough, Hood would kill him quickly.

Jason was ten feet away, in full Hood regalia.

Black spots crowded in the edge of Tim’s vision.

 _It’s now or never_.

Tim pulled the trigger.

Then he pulled it again.

He didn’t stop until he’d emptied the whole clip into Jason’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact—In Batman: Under the Red Hood (Movie), Jason is voiced by Jensen Ackles, who played Dean Winchester in Supernatural. As an homage to Jensen’s other role, they had Red Hood drive a Chevy Impala, which is Dean’s car/love interest in Supernatural.
> 
> Jason's POV will be next chapter (or two, depending on how long things go), and then we'll be returning to STEPH!!! Light of my life, queen of my heart <3 <3 <3


	9. Jason

Jason was not having a good day. Scratch that, Jason was not having a good week. Or month. Or the last three years. Or really a good life at all.

Second life.

Though the first one hadn’t been that great either.

Whatever. That wasn’t the point.

The point was that the past three days had been particularly bad.

First, Replacement had figured out his identity. Replacement was strangely knowledgable about the kid that had been Jason Todd. Jason didn’t like it. He didn’t like anybody seeing beneath his hood. It made his skin crawl.

Worse, Replacement had just looked up at Jason with this unshakeable awe— _as Jason was choking him out_ —and whispered, certain as a psalm, “ _Robin.”_

Which, no.

Jason was not Robin. Jason did not want to be Robin. The kid—the _Replacement_ —was Robin. That’s why he was called the Replacement. Jason was not anything near to being Robin.

Not anymore.

So Jason did the only thing he _could_ do in that scenario: he fled.

He dragged the Replacement to the mattress, hid in his bedroom upstairs, and had a panic attack until he fell asleep. He woke up a few hours later—nightmares tinged green—and went for a walk outside.

The ground was hard, covered in frost, and the air was crystalline cold. Jason could see the stars above the tops of the pines. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the stars.

He hadn’t ever really seen them before he died. Gotham—even the outskirts of Gotham where Wayne Manor rested—was too polluted, too full of light and gas and haze for any but the brightest of stars to shine through.

The first time he’d truly seen the night sky had been in Nanda Parbat.

Now, just outside his safehouse in eastern Pennsylvania, surrounded by nothing but woods for miles, he stared at the stars hanging like diamonds in the chill of the night and chewed on some emotion he could not name.

When he returned to the safehouse, he realized that he’d forgotten to turn the lights off so that Replacement could sleep, _again._ Whoops. He flicked the switch that would bring the kid some darkness. Better late than never, right?

Ugh. Why was Jason so bad at this?

It was supposed to be easy: kidnap the kid, torture him, send a video to Bruce, make sure B was actually tormented by said video, disappear without a trace. Rinse and repeat if there were ever more Robins. And, okay, yeah, Jason had so far been pulling off the plan without a hitch. It was going perfectly.

But it didn’t _feel_ right.

Jason just felt weirdly empty and sad.

Whatever. It didn’t matter.

He’d deal with it in the morning.

* * *

In the morning, he felt like crap. Not sick, exactly, just…wrung out. Tired. He took advantage of the fact that he lived alone (except for the kid locked in his torture basement) to stay in bed until noon.

Then he forced himself up and got something to eat. Put on the Bat-recordings. Had to make sure they were suitably worried for their missing bird.

Most of it was boring. Long periods of silence. Them digging into his crime lord operations that he’d decided to abandon when the plan changed to kidnapping instead of immediate murder. Stuff he already knew.

There were a few interesting tidbits, though. Batgirl was deep undercover on a mission somewhere, and wouldn’t even be able to be _contacted_ for another two weeks. Also, apparently B had helped Replacement hire an actor to play his uncle. Which explained why that whole thing had been so shady. And why the Replacement was living alone. And why Jason hadn’t been able to see anything off with the paper trail.

Actually, wait, no, that didn’t explain a damn thing. _What the fuck, Bruce?_ Replacement could get a tentative pass because Jason had known him for all of three days and it was clear that the kid was not anything approaching normal or sane, but _Bruce_? The man was a serial adopter, and instead of adopting his newly-orphaned sidekick, he’d sent him to another city to live alone? What the fuck was that? Had he realized that they were expendable and so didn’t bother with the formalities any more?

Had he…had he really regretted adopting Jason so much that it stopped him from ever taking in another kid?

It left him feeling sick, and the room all washed with green.

He wanted to kill someone. Specifically Bruce, but anyone would do. Viscerally, bloodily. He wanted to pound in someone’s face until the crack of bones beneath his knuckles gave way to soft _crunches_ and their brain matter leaked out their ears. He wanted to _hurt._

Replacement was in the basement.

He was planning on killing Replacement anyway.

 _No_. Jason shook his head, trying to clear it of green. _No_. He had a plan. He would stick to the plan.

He beat up a punching bag instead.

By the time dinner rolled around, he still didn’t trust himself in the room with the kid. Good thing there was food and shit down there. Jason hadn’t actually planned on him needing to eat any of that stuff—it was a contingency, just in case Jason died when Replacement was still down there. Or if Jason somehow got locked in there himself. Talia would check in every three days, but it might take her longer than that to actually come let him out. Jason didn’t want the kid to starve to death.

Though that might be more merciful than handing him over to Talia.

Talia _hated_ the Replacement.

Jason ate dinner and took a shower. He had to use the downstairs one in the bunker, because he still hadn’t even touched the bathroom he destroyed. He needed to get on that. He should also probably figure out a shower schedule for the kid. Ugh.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he’d figure out showers and food for the kid, and he’d clean up the bathroom he’d destroyed, and he’d make a video for B, and he’d figure out why everything felt so empty and hollow.

Yeah. Tomorrow.

* * *

Surprise, he did not get any of that shit done tomorrow. Except for the video to B. He kinda got that done. Not really. Mostly.

He slept in again—and had actually remembered Replacement’s lights this time around!—and had brunch around 2:00pm.

Then he was too restless to focus, to do anything. He needed to fight someone.

There wasn’t anyone here to fight.

There was the kid.

 _No_. _Stick to the plan. Slow torture. Key word: slow. It doesn’t work if you can’t keep sending B videos months down the line._

He could go back to Gotham, look for trouble. It was only an hour and a half drive, at least the way Jason drove.

That was an even worse idea, and he knew it.

Scranton wasn’t far. Less than half an hour. He was sure he could find some idiot scum and knock their heads in.

 _Bad idea. Then the Bat knows you’re nearby_.

Ughhhhhhhhh. Everything was awful and Jason wanted to _die._ Again.

That was a lie. He didn’t want to die.

He dismantled his Impala’s engine, instead. Destructive enough to act as a balm for the green, constructive enough that he didn’t feel like a complete failure. When the engine was on the floor in pieces, he decided that was enough for today andturned to his new career as a video editor. Jason knew that whatever digital shit he did, it wouldn’t hold to Barbie’s scrutiny. So he went old school. VCR. The camera and all the equipment were from a yard sale in West Virginia—no way was Oracle going to be able to trace _that_ back to him.

Except putting the thing together meant he had to go through and _watch_ the fucking tape. He was doing just fine, coasting on green, up until Replacement opened his stupid fucking mouth and hissed out, “ _Don’t you fucking talk about Jason like that._ ”

Jason reached out and stopped the tape. Nope. Not doing that again. Bad feelings. He rewound a bit, cut off the recording before they got there.

A part of him—a large part of him—wanted to include the bit he’d said about Dick and himself, how they’d both been replaced by inferior copies, but listening to it back now…there was a chance, however small, that they might get something from it. He was too angry, too uncontrolled, too _hurt_ in that clip. It made him seem vulnerable, and that was the last thing he wanted to show to the Bats.

So, early cut, and now it was time to make a threat. He went back downstairs to do it—the whole house was soundproofed, but the featureless concrete and cold lighting down there made for a better ambiance.

He set the camera on the floor in the hallway and dragged a chair from the medbay for him to sit on. That should be appropriately casual, right? _Nonchalant_. I have your little bird, and I’m not even the tiniest bit worried you’ll ever find him.

He leaned forward, looked into the camera, smiled underneath his helmet. “Brucie! Hope you enjoyed the show.” He paused, considered. “No, that’s stupid. Okay, okay. Reset.”

He took a breath. “Bruce.” He let cruel malice tip his lips upward. “I know you didn’t get to see exactly how your second one went, so I thought I’d let you watch for number three.”

“…Nope. That wasn’t it either.”

Reset.

“Hello Bruce. Just thought I’d let you know: I will kill him. Slowly, painfully. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Ugh, no.” _He already knows that. All you’re doing is making it less scary by putting it into words._

Reset.

“Heya, B! —Nope, not even gonna try to save that one.”

Reset. _Maybe no greeting?_

“I killed him.” _Ooh, that was good_. _But now you’ve lost the possibility of tormenting him with future torture videos unless you want him to know you’re a liar._ “Don’t worry, I brought him back.”

 _Mmm. Closer, but not quite_.

Reset.

“I’ll bury him when I’m done. Nice coffin, sturdy. Six feet under the ground, all that. Maybe he’ll be able to dig himself up before he runs out of air. Break his fingernails off into the hardwood as he tears at the satin all around him. Break a few fingers as he tries to punch his way out. Realize that there _is_ no getting out, not without equipment and a hell of a lot more strength than he has in that body.”

“Fuck, _I_ wouldn’t have made it out if it weren’t for that stupid belt buckle. Because God fucking forbid you bury me in something _useful._ Or even moderately comfortable. Crawling through six feet of dirt and mud with broken fingers and bloody hands, suffocating on the soil, gasping for something, _anything,_ all while you’re in a _fucking_ suit jacket and tie, restricting your every motion? It’s not _fucking fun_ , Bruce! Every fucking night, I relive that shit. _Every fucking night_! Why the _fuck_ would you—you spent all that fucking money, on the coffin, and the suit, and that _fucking_ angel headstone, and then you never even bothered to notice that I dug my way out of my fucking grave! It’s not like I was _subtle_ about it! Why the _fuck_ wouldn’t you notice—?! It must have been destroyed! The ground would have been wrecked. And you—you just threw all that money at it, ‘Here lies Jason Fucking Todd, we’ve put him in a fancy suit for appearance’s sake but fuck if we’ll actually care enough to notice if _his grave gets desecrated from the fucking inside._ ’ Fuck you. I promise I’ll at least _notice_ if Replacement digs himself up after I’ve buried him.”

“Fuck.” He stepped out of frame and flipped open his helmet to chug down a bottle of water.

Reset.

Finally— _finally_ —he got a take that he was happy with. He was tired, so wrung out, that he couldn’t put any real emotion into his voice.

That was fine. _Good_ , even. Detached, impartial, casual. Those things were scary. Hood was scary.

Jason let Hood take over.

“Anyway, this isn’t a ransom, or a demand, or anything. Just thought you’d like to know what Robin Number Three is doing with the rest of his days. He’ll be in pain, screaming, wishing he was dead and praying that you’ll come. Maybe he’ll even believe it.” _Jason had believed it. Up until the very end, Jason had believed._

Hood shrugged. That was just how it was.

“But you won’t, at least not in time to save him, because you never do. What’s that saying—once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern?” _If it had just been Jason, if he’d been the only one, maybe…then maybe it would have been his fault. Maybe it_ was _his fault_. _But B didn’t get to just walk away. Not when he hadn’t been there_.

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time, so I won’t contact you again. Bye.”

The ‘bye’ was stupid, an automatic reflex, but fuck it. Good enough. Jason switched the camera off and went upstairs. He’d edit it in the morning. Now the only thing he wanted to do was sleep.

The bathroom and Replacement would keep.

* * *

Jason woke as he almost always did, clawing his way out of green-soaked nightmares where he couldn’t breathe, gun drawn and ready to fire.

A few seconds to breathe, and he lowered his weapon. Still alive. Still alone.

He changed out his sweat-soaked armor for a fresh set, made his way to the kitchen. Breakfast. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he thunked his head down on the counter and groaned. He _really_ needed to deal with Replacement today. _Fuck._

Thing was, he didn’t actually want to torture the kid. Not now. Not after the haze of green had lifted and his too-real nightmares clung tight to his skin. _Had he really been planning to inflict that same pain, worse pain even, on someone else? On a fucking kid?_

The thought had been chewing its way into his mind for a few days, Jason could admit that now. But _fuck._ If he wasn’t going to torture the kid, what _was_ he going to do with him? He couldn’t just _let him go_. But he couldn’t just keep the kid in his basement bunker for the rest of his natural life.

It was a problem.

Jason considered it as he sipped his tea and nibbled on some scrambled eggs. There had to be some kind of workable solution.

He finished breakfast all too soon. Well, no point in putting it off. He almost forgot to speed through Replacement’s tapes—the kid was up to something, but Jason couldn’t make himself care enough to rewind and rewatch the tapes to figure out what, exactly. Jason was almost a foot taller, armed to the teeth, covered in a full suit of body armor, and well-fed. Replacement had been living off Ensure, was in a T-shirt, and had _maybe_ a makeshift shank or two. Jason would easily win any fight if it came to it.

He could do this.

He could not do this.

Replacement was waiting for him, and the first words out of his mouth were, “So, did you come back wrong, were you thrown in a Lazarus Pit, or were you somehow kidnapped by a villain and B didn’t notice?”

 _How the fuck did Replacement know—?_ Jason shook himself out of it. Obviously, Replacement didn’t actually know how on the money he was. He rejoined with the simple truth, disguised as a joke: “Not that it’s any of your business, Replacement, but it was all three.”

Replacement’s eyes narrowed. “And now you’re, what, back from the dead and here for your bloody revenge?”

“Bingo. It’s time for torture, Timmy!” _What? Jason couldn’t have a little fun tormenting the Replacement? It wasn’t like he was going to actually do the torture he was threatening. Anymore._

“You’re an asshole.”

Jason grinned. “Wow, you’re only just figuring that out? And they say you’re the smart one.”

“They do? Who says that?”

“Obviously no one who actually knows what they’re talking about.”

Replacement rolled his eyes.

“Okay, up and at ’em, Timantha. ’Tis the season for suffering and all that.” They could go upstairs—as a gesture of Jason’s munificent goodwill—and talk things over over a breakfast of real food. Replacement had to be sick of nutrition shakes and MRE.

“Oh, is it December already?”

Oh, right. Replacement had no idea how long he’d been down there. Whoops. Jason shrugged. “It could be. Up.”

“Yeah, no. I’m not willingly going to get tortured.” Where had all this attitude been before? Honestly, Jason was kind of enjoying their back and forth. This was fun.

He narrowed his eyes, even though Tim-Tam couldn’t see it. “Then you’ll go unwillingly.” He should probably cuff Replacement anyway before bringing him to a less secure area.

“And how’s that gonna work? Are you, Jason Todd, the Big Bad Red Riding Hood, going to drag me, Timothy Drake—an unarmed and unarmored _kid_ —and what, beat me up? Choke me again? Electrocute me? Really?”

“Yup.” Jason grinned. “That’s exactly what’s gonna happen.” _Well, no, it wasn’t, but…fun banter_. And Replacement trying not to look afraid when he very obviously was quaking in his bare feet was _hilarious._

“So…whatever happened to you in the last three years has made you the type of person who’s cool with torturing children for shits and giggles.”

 _A flash of green. Manic giggling. Which hurts more, A or B? Pain. Forehand…or backhand? Screaming laughter. Come now, birdboy. You’re not going to sleep on me already, are you? Fear. Ha ha ha hA HA hA Ha hA._ Jason bit back a growl. “You’re not a kid, Replacement. You’re _Robin._ ”

“Yes, and I’m pretty sure I’m also a minor.”

Jason grit his teeth. _Ha ha ha hA HA hA Ha hA. Fire. Pain. Green._ “Barely. You’re _sixteen,_ Timbourine.”

“Yeah,” said Replacement. “That’s a minor.”

Everything inside Jason was _screaming_ for blood. Red to balance out the green. He forced it back. “That’s older than I was when I died,” he said instead. “You survived a whole year over me.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness off his face.

“And what, you’re jealous that you never got a sweet sixteen?”

 _Well, fuck you too, Replacement, you snot-nosed brat_. “I’m not _jealous_ of you, Replacement.”

“Kinda seems like you are.”

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe. Fire in his lungs, fire and dirt and acid. Green green green. Couldn’t keep up with the conversation. “Fuck you.” That was always a safe bet.

“I’m not getting up.”

The green roared. That was practically an _invitation._ Hood grinned. _Finally_. “Fine by me.” He drew and shot, remembering at the last second that he wasn’t actually planning on hurting the Replacement. He aimed high.

“Did you just try to _shoot_ me?”

Nope. If he had, Replacement would have been shot. “That was your only warning, Replacement.” Green fire and acid surged against his skin, begging for bloodshed. _Please, please, please_. It was all he could think about. Replacement, bleeding on the floor. Replacement, screaming in pain and terror. Replacement, begging for nonexistant mercy.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Fighting back could work too. Hood smiled, broad, let his teeth glint under the helmet. Violence was in the air, and it was only a matter of time before it broke. “C’mon, Timberly. We’ve already covered this. I came back wrong, was dunked in a Lazarus Pit, and kidnapped by evil villains. Keep up.”

“Were you actually, though?”

 _Rude_. How fucking dare he doubt Jason’s tragic backstory? But actually. How fucking dare he?

_Green and laughter, the sting of a whip, dirt grinding into the beds of his fingers where his nails used to be._

Replacement was cowering behind the couch, a yellow blob, but easy enough to aim and _skim_ the arm. A warning. A promise.

Jason’s blood sung. “Couch ain’t bulletproof, Tim-Tam-a-Lam,” he called. Oh, Replacement was going to _pay_.

“Watch where you’re shooting that thing! You could have killed me.”

 _That’s the fucking point, dipshit_. “And I will,” Hood promised, and the green hummed in pleasure. “But give me a little credit, Timmy. I can _aim_.”

“You can’t _see_ me!”

“Yes, I can.” He tapped his helmet. “Thermal imaging, Timbo. It’s not just a fashion statement.”

Silence. Panting. Replacement was _afraid_ , and it made something inside Jason curl up in warm satisfaction. “Why are you shooting at _me_ anyway? Shouldn’t you be going after the Joker or something? You know, the person who actually killed you?”

Cold. Freezing cold. Death and acid and fire searing his soul, so hot and bright it had circled right round back to cold. The satisfaction was gone. The comfort was gone. There was only green, only green rage and the promise of blood and viscera staining the floor. The certainty of rage and pain. 

There were words. They didn’t matter. His being demanded blood and suffering. Shattered bones. _Slow_ , something in his mind reminded him. _No_ , said another part. _Don’t_.

 _Shhhhh._ He clipped a shoulder with his next shot, and that was very unsatisfying. He had better aim than that—why had he…?

 _Oh. Right_. It would be better to do this up close. Where he could _see_ the insides of the little bird become its outsides. A thrilling surge of green, the promise of pleasure and pain, and he knew nothing else as he allowed that wave to carry him forward to his prey.

* * *

_Pain_. Jesus fuck his arm hurt. Jason looked down, and oh, that was blood. A lot of it. His blood. Still streaming out much too fast. _Shit_.

Jason applied pressure with his other hand. _What the fuck had happened?_ He’d been talking with the Replacement, and the Replacement was being a little shit, and then—nothing. Green. _Glee_.

…Replacement had called him a cliché? Fuck him, _the Replacement_ was a cliché.

Oh, and also he had a sharp piece of plastic embedded in his artery and was spurting blood from the wound.

“Jesus fucking—what the _fuck_ , Replacement?” Jason had to admit he was grudgingly impressed. That had been a good shot. The Pit seemed to have receded in the face of Jason’s pain and blood and slightly bemused respect at Replacement’s sheer gall.

Speaking of, where was the kid? Jason scanned the room, and…of course he was fiddling with the lock. Fuck.

Jason wasn’t going to be able to get there in time to stop him leaving. Thankfully, that’s what guns were for. Jason aimed and fired—nowhere vital, the outside of his shoulder, just enough to make him drop the picks—but Replacement just switched hands and kept going.

Jason sighed. Great. This was going to be fun to clean up. Also he was still bleeding. Quite badly. He needed to get on that.

He took a step forward, and— _woah_. Dizzy. Hello, blood loss. Fun.

Replacement was opening the door, and with a sudden jolt of panic, Jason realized that Replacement was perfectly capable of locking him in. Another shot—to the leg this time, slow him down, and Jason was running after him, charging the door. No fucking way was he getting himself locked in here for fucking Batman to pick up when Replacement called in reinforcements. Fuck, that would be embarrassing.

Jason crashed into the hallway, Replacement already disappearing around the corner. Okay, priorities. There was no signal here, except for the satcom built into his helmet. Replacement was wounded, would take a bit to either hack his communications systems or hot wire his car. Except, wait, the car was in pieces right now. So he’d need to take the bike, and there was no way he was in shape to drive it. Jason had time. Stitch himself up first.

There was a medbay in the bunker complex, and Jason liberally helped himself to the materials there. Holy motherfucking pissballs, Replacement had managed to snap off a sharpened plastic spoon _inside_ his arm.

With a frustrated sigh, Jason shrugged off his jacket and the armour on his arm, tied a tourniquet just below his elbow. This was going to bleed like a bitch if he didn’t, and Jason didn’t think he had that much blood to lose. He twisted the tourniquet tight, tied it off with his teeth in a practiced move, and got to work. Tourniquet was all well and good to stem the blood loss, but Jason was on a timer now if he wanted to keep his arm.

He cursed and hissed as he pried out the plastic, cleaned out the wound, _quick, quick, quick_ , stitches with his left hand—good enough, slice off the tourniquet.

Jason _screamed_ as the blood rushed down through his forearm and the bubbling agony threatened to overwhelm him.

For a few moments, it was all he could do to curl up on the floor and pant in pain.

“ _Oh fuck,”_ he gasped out. _“That sucked. That really, really sucked_.”

Jason grimaced and pushed himself up with his good arm, forced himself to make a fist with the injured one. Hurt like a bitch, but at least his hand obeyed his orders.

Jason exhaled, closed his eyes for just a moment. Then it was time for bandages, and pulling his blood-soaked armor back on. It squelched and rubbed uncomfortably as he did. Ugh. Nope, not gonna think about it. That was a problem for the Jason of Christmas Future.

The Jason of Christmas Present had to deal with Tim.

* * *

After kicking down the staiwell door—and reducing the wooden cabinet to smithereens—finding and cornering the Replacement, and _getting fucking shot_ by the Replacement, Jason thought it was fair to say that this wasn’t his best day ever.

He leaned against the hood of his car, wincing and probing his chest. Yup, definitely some cracked ribs. Jason’s body armour was good, probably the best money could buy, but there was only so much it could do with six bullets and point blank range. _Ow._

Jason poked at his ribs again, unable to stop. It was like wiggling a tooth. Except, you know, inside your body with the potential to puncture your lungs. And hellishly painful. Just like a loose tooth.

Jason sighed, turned his attention to Tim. “What was the plan there, Replacement? You had to know I’m wearing armor.”

Replacement was shaking against the garage door. Jason thought it was shock, not fear. Though it could be both.

“Hey!” He tried to snap for the Replacement’s attention, but between his gloves and his screaming wrist, it was a futile effort. “Replacement. What the fuck outcome were you hoping for there?”

He pried the gun from Tim’s grip with his good hand, tossed it aside. Boxed the kid in with his body.

Replacement looked up at him. “Um, escape?”

“Yeah, no, I got _that,_ dipshit. The shooting me move. What the fuck was that about? Isn’t that, like, Daddy Bat’s cardinal rule?” He made his voice go deep and growly in a mocking imitation of Bruce’s. “‘No guns.’ You’re not stupid enough to think that would kill me, or even slow me down that much, it doesn’t help you escape, so I ask yet again: _what the fuck, Replacement?_ ”And Jason _was_ asking that question a lot. It was infuriating.

“Uh…”

“C’mon, Timbo, there’s gotta be an answer somewhere in there.” He flicked Tim’s head with his good hand.

Tim startled back at the touch, but didn’t flinch. “Honestly? A quick death.”

Jason was silent for a long moment. “That’s the fucking stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.” He sputtered, trying to get his thoughts in order. “Even discounting how _fucked up_ that is—How… _Why_ would you even think that would _work_?”

Replacement shrugged, winced as the motion tugged his own wounds. “I dunno. But at least it’s better if you kill me than if I kill you. B would never forgive me if I…” He went pale. “ _Oh my God, I shot you.”_

“Yeah,” said Jason, mind reeling with the implications of the other thing Tim had just said. “We’ve already established that.”

“No, you don’t _get it_ ,” Tim insisted. “B’s going to…he’s going to—He probably won’t kill me, but he might lock me up somewhere in a dark box and never let me out. _Fuck_.”

“Why the fuck would he—?”

“You’re _you_ ,” Tim insisted. “If B ever found out—that you’re back, that I’d _hurt_ you? Death would be a mercy.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no. Kid, I’m a mass-murdering psychopath who was actively torturing you. Pretty sure you’re allowed to use self-defense, Timmyboy.”

“Yeah, but you’re also _Jason_. And I used a _gun._ ” Somehow the kid got even paler than he’d already been.

“So?”

“ _So_ , B has a thing about guns. And you getting hurt. I’m dead. Oh my god, I’m dead.”

 _Lies_. “He didn’t even do that much to the fucking _Joker_ , and that fucko _killed_ me. You’ll be fine.” The green fury was rising up in him once again. The need to _hurt_ , to _rage_ , to _kill_.

“But—”

“You know what?” Jason cut off the kid, breathing out in a controlled hiss. “Let’s not talk about—about _him_. About either of them.”

“O...kay? I mean—”

“Shut up,” Jason snapped. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of rage. _Breathe_. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen: we are not going to talk about”— _green fire, the smash of the crowbar, blood in his lungs, fire in his lungs, hA HA Ha hA hA HA ha hA, can’t breathe, acid in his lungs, I promise, Jaylad_ —“about any of that, and I am not going to lose control and attack you again. Got it?”

“What exactly do—”

“ _Got it?_ ” Jason grit out, an order. He was barely clinging onto sanity.

Silence. A few pained breaths. Jason wasn’t sure if they were his or the Replacement’s.

“Sure. Got it.” Replacement’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

Jason forced his eyes open, forced himself into the present. His fists were both clenched, his injured wrist throbbing with each beat of his heart. He was here. He wasn’t there. He was in control.

Replacement bit his lip, considered. “When you say ‘lose control,’ do you—”

“ _That_ ,” Jason spit, “would fall under the category of ‘any of that.’”

Replacement took an angry breath in to respond, then seemed to think better of it. “ _Fine_. What is an acceptable topic of conversation, then?”

Jason deliberately tensed and relaxed each of his muscles, head to toe. He was here. He could do this. “You’re injured,” he forced out. “Let’s get you patched up, and then we can go over ground rules. Boundaries.”

Tim stared up at him, suspicious. But it wasn’t like he had a choice. Replacement was injured, weak, cornered. Unarmed, ill-supplied. He wasn’t going anywhere without Jason’s support. As if to prove his thought, Tim swayed in place. “No torture?”

“No torture.”

Replacement didn’t look like he believed him, but he nodded shakily. “Okay.”

Good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Location, location, location**
> 
> Jason’s safe house is in a state park in the Poconos. Just in case anyone was curious. I have been pretending that Gotham has taken the place of Camden, New Jersey, because it is on a river and is not directly across from NYC (as opposed to Newark or Jersey City). Trenton was also an option, but then we’d live in a world where Gotham was the capitol of NJ, and I wasn’t willing to live in that world.
> 
> After a careful study of [this map](https://www.rd.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/jul-Aug-WK-You-say-tomato-02-Josh-Katz.jpg?fit=640,427) (available with other maps of regional american slang [here](https://www.rd.com/list/regional-sayings-phrases-words)), I have decided that Jason calls them ‘yard sales’, not 'garage sales' or 'tag sales.' YES, I know that where I put Gotham puts him in ‘garage sale’ territory, but ‘garage sale’ FEELS wrong, and I’m pretty sure ‘yard sale’ is universally understood on the East Coast. (Side note: I grew up in the part of Connecticut where we call them ‘tag sales’, and I had no idea that that term was *so* specific to the region until I came across that map a few years ago). 
> 
> **Joker’s Speech**
> 
> The stuff in the Joker’s voice is a combination of things from Batman #427, and the ‘Under the Red Hood’ movie. Most of the quotes generally used in fanfic are from the movie. Anyway, here’s basically everything Joker says while he’s beating up Jason, in case you want to use it in your own fics.
> 
>  **Movie quotes:** _Okay, Pumpkin, which hurts more: A or B? Forehand or backhand? / Little louder, lambchop. I think you may have a collapsed lung—that always impedes the oratory. / Now that was rude. The first boy blunder had some manners. I suppose I’m going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps…Nah, I’m just going to keep beating you with this crowbar. / Okay, kiddo, I gotta go. It's been fun though, right? Well, maybe a smidge more fun for me than you. I'm just guessing since you're being awful quiet. / Anyway, be a good boy. Finish your homework and be in bed by 9:00. And, hey…please tell the Big Man I said, ‘hello.’_
> 
>  **Comic quotes:** _Come now, Birdboy! You’re not going to sleep on me already, are you? The party’s just got started! / That wasn’t a very nice thing to do to Uncle Joker. / You’ve been a bad boy. You must be punished! Prepare yourself for a severe spanking, young man. But let me tell you right from the start…this is going to hurt you a lot more than it does me._ Which, not sure if they intended for that to sound as sexually menacing as it is, but…


	10. Tim & Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for discussion of suicide (yet again, wow, I was not expecting *this much* suicide talk when I set out to write this, only some background ideation, but whooey, I guess I’ve set up a Theme or something and I’m running with it)

Tim stared at Jason. Jason ignored Tim, and instead stabbed him repeatedly with a small needle. He’d removed his gauntlets, washed his hands, and changed into medical gloves, his one concession to the fact he was performing a medical procedure. Otherwise, he was still fully geared-up. He hadn’t even removed his helmet.

It wasn’t the best-case scenario, not by any means, but it thankfully wasn’t anywhere near the worst-case scenarios Tim had imagined. Though that may just be because Tim was hazy with blood loss and the comedown from his adrenaline-fueled flight. Maybe it was worse than he thought, and Tim was just too tired to notice.

Oh, wait. It was worse that he thought, because _Tim had shot Jason_. Why had he done that? There had been…thoughts at the time that made it make sense but now he couldn’t figure it out for the life of him. Bruce was going to hate him forever.

Maybe— _maybe_ —his relationship with Bruce could be salvaged if he brought Jason back to the family. Then Bruce might tolerate him because Jason was there too.

So he had to make Jason like him. Easier said than done. One, it was _Jason_ , who was kind of his childhood hero, second only to Dick Grayson, who only held first place because he’d met Dick first and his little toddler mind had imprinted upon the older boy. Two, he had no idea how to make Jason like him. His current plan was just to act like they were already friends and hope it caught on. Of course, Tim wasn’t particularly _nice_ to most of his friends. So maybe that was a bad plan. He didn’t have a better one though. And three, most importantly, Jason was obviously not _Jason_ , or at least not as he had been. _Jason_ Jason wouldn’t have tortured Tim. But he might have patched Tim up if he was injured, so maybe there was still hope?

Tim winced as Jason pulled the thread through his body with a particularly harsh tug. “Ow.”

A gentle swat. “Hush, Replacement.”

“Do you seriously not have any painkillers in this whole facility?”

“I don’t do drugs.”

“An aspirin? Tylenol?”

“Those are drugs.”

His next stitch was vicious, and Tim bit back a hiss.

“Stop whining.”

“ _Stop whining_ ,” Tim mocked back, for lack of any better comebacks with his brain all fuzzy. “You shot me, Jason. Four times. It hurts, and this is the kind of thing that normal people use painkillers for.”

“Oh, boo-hoo, Replacement got clipped a few times. You don’t even have any bullets in you. _I_ had to dig myself out of my grave, fresh from the autopsy table, and I sure as shit didn’t get _pain meds_ for that. Suck it up.”

“Not my fault you didn’t get proper medical treatment,” Tim snapped back, but his mind was reeling. _Jason had dug himself out of his grave? How?_

It also meant that Tim’s leading theory, a Lazarus Pit, wasn’t how Jason had come back. But it just made so much _sense._ Tim’s memory of the one and only time he’d actually seen Jason’s _face_ was hazy, but he remembered the eyes, glowing green above him as his air slipped away. Too bright to be natural, the same glowing green as Ra’s. It explained the mood swings, the paranoia, the rage, the somewhat untethered view of reality, the intense desire to _hurt_. Classic Pit Madness.

Tim didn’t like the thought he was wrong about Jason having been put in the Pit. Pit Madness was understandable, if unpredictable—magic always was—and if it was the Pit, then that would mean that Jason, that _Robin_ , hadn’t actually tortured him. It was just sort of like…mind control. Or drugging someone until they couldn’t understand what they were doing. It wasn’t his fault.

But if it hadn’t been the Pit…

Although… _All three, Replacement_ , Jason had said, and Tim was beginning to believe he hadn’t been joking. Came back wrong, somehow, stuck in his grave; then put in a Lazarus Pit; then kidnapped by villains…the League of Assassins? Probably reverse those last two: grave, _then_ kidnapped by the League, _then_ dunked in a Lazarus Pit, and _then_ …?

Somehow it ended in a convoluted scheme that involved torturing Tim.

“So…you mentioned ground rules?”

A grunt from Jason. Wow, that was so like B it was uncanny.

Tim tried again. “What kind of things were you thinking?”

Jason scowled and focused on his stitches. “Don’t talk about…about _Him_ ,” he finally ground out.

 _Him being…the Joker, probably?_ That seemed like the kind of thing Tim shouldn’t leave to just ‘probably.’ “Okay,” said Tim. “Just to confirm, _Him_ being…?”

Jason exhaled a short, angry huff. He didn’t look up from his work tying Tim’s arm back together. “The Clown.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t like talking about Him.”

“Okay.”

“I remember and there’s green and laughing and I can’t—I can’t. Control it.”

Tim took a breath to cover another wince as Jason started to tie off his stitches. “Okay,” he said again. Then, “It?”

“The Pit.” So Tim _had_ been right about that.

“The Lazarus Pit?” he asked anyway.

“Yeah. Lie down. I need to get to your leg.”

Obediently, Tim lay face-down on the medical table, face hidden by his better arm. The worse one he kept loose at his side. It was easier, somehow, if he wasn’t looking at the Red Hood.

Jason cleaned out his leg wound and started on the stitches before he spoke again. “I get…It makes me angry, and I can’t _think_. I didn’t…Today. When I came into the room, I didn’t mean to actually hurt you again. Just mess with you a little, maybe. The first shot was always gonna miss. But then you mentioned _Him_ and I—” He cut himself off, obviously frustrated.

“Hey,” said Tim, still not looking at him. “It’s cool. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Yeah, whatever. I just”—a deep breath—“I’ve been thinking. A lot. Over the past few days. And…I’m mad at Bruce, not you. And you’re a kid. An _annoying, irresponsible, reckless, idiotic_ kid who took my place and stabbed me in the arm with a fucking spoon, but a kid. I shouldn’t’ve tortured you. So. Sorry. About that.”

He paused. Was he expecting a response? What was Tim supposed to say— _oh yeah, it’s all totally chill, torture is whatever and I completely forgive you_? Because, no. _Shit, shit, shit, he needed to say_ something.

“Uh…thanks? I mean, I’m not about to just no-holds say it’s fine and I accept your apology, but”—Tim slowed down here, trying to think through his words—“it’s pretty obvious you’re going through some stuff, so maybe we can try and figure out how to…move past it?”

Silence. Jason had finished his stitching. “Yeah. That would be…good.”

“Cool.” Tim exhaled through a twinging pain in his leg.

“I’m not letting you go, though.” Jason smeared some kind of ointment on Tim’s leg and started bandaging him up.

“Yeah, I figured,” said Tim. “But could my enforced stay here be a bit less torture-dungeon-y?”

“Yeah. No torture, I already said.”

“And no dungeon?” Tim asked hopefully.

“No way. You’re still a flight risk, and I’m not an idiot. We can make it more comfy though if you promise not to attack me again.”

Tim sighed. “Yeah, okay.” He’d been going to ask about supervised trips outside, but he could build up to that. “Can I have something to do? It’s really boring in there.”

“Books, only from what I already have in the safe house. No electronics.”

Disappointing, but not unexpected. “Notebook and something to write with?”

“Sure.”

“A clock?”

“No, that’s electronics. Or mechanics. Whatever. Either way, no.”

“Some way to tell time, then.”

Silence, but Hood was considering it. “I’ll keep to a schedule on the lights, and come visit you at least once a day. You can ask me what time it is then.”

“So I’m completely dependent upon you to keep track of the passage of time.”

A shrug. “Take it or leave it, Replacement. Up.”

Tim sighed and sat up. “Fine. What’s the schedule for the lights?”

Hood fashioned a sling for Tim’s right arm and started fiddling with it. “Lights out from three to eleven?”

Not horrible. It was way more time than he usually slept, but kept him on a somewhat reasonable schedule for a return to vigilantism. “Deal. More blankets.”

“Fine.”

“Real clothes.”

“Sweats,” was Hood’s counteroffer.

“Yeah, okay.” That was great, actually. Tim loved curling up in sweats. “Showers. Or a bath. Some way to get clean.”

“Not today, because we just got your stitches done, but in general, sure. Once a day?”

Tim startled. That was more generous than he’d been expecting. “Yeah, that works.”

“Morning or night?”

Oooh, he got _choices_. “Night.” Obviously, Tim would be keeping up a workout routine, and this way he didn’t have to go to bed all gross and sweaty. “Real food?”

“Yeah, but no complaining about it.” Hood’s helmet turned towards him. “You have any allergies I don’t know about?”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “…Are there any allergies of mine that you _do_ know about?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

A beat. “Then…why did you need to know what I knew?”

“I don’t know! Maybe you did some kind of freaky blood test thing and discovered an allergy I didn’t know about.”

“Nah, that level of stalking is more B’s domain. I’m more the creepy watching through your window through a rifle scope kind of stalking.”

“Oh, cool.” Tim paused. “Did you do that to me?”

“Yep,” said Hood, completely unashamed. “By the way, Timbers? Creating a fake uncle so you can live alone and not sleep and poke yourself with a needle? Not healthy, and you’re talking to the king of unhealthy behaviors right here.”

Tim flushed. “Nobody asked you.”

Hood shrugged. “I took it upon myself, since no one else was. The bats and birds have realized how much they really dropped the ball on you since you disappeared though, so that’s something.”

“They…they _have_?” There was nothing _to_ drop the ball on, but Jason’s words left an oddly warm feeling in him nonetheless. “Wait. How do you know that?”

Hood tapped his helmet. “Bat frequencies.”

Tim frowned. _They were close enough to Gotham to pick up comm chatter?_ From what he’d been able to see of the outside, they were in a heavily forested mountainous area. There was nowhere like that close enough to Gotham to be in range.

Like he was reading Tim’s mind, Jason added, “I’ve got them on a relay.”

“Oh. Huh.” Tim considered that. “How are they?”

“Fine,” said Hood, terse. Then he relented. “Frightened. Frantic—ooh, alliteration!”

Tim swallowed. Hood’s tone said he didn’t want to talk about the bats anymore, but… “They’re really worried about me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Jason, and he seemed sincere, at least as much as Tim could read him through the mask. “They’re worried sick about you, kiddo.”

“Oh,” said Tim, quiet.

Jason took that as an invitation to add, “Not worried _enough_ , mind you, but they will be.”

Somehow, Tim didn’t find that very comforting at all.

* * *

Tim fiddled with his latest gift from Jason: a hunk of modeling clay he could squish between his fingers ‘ _so that you have something to do with your hands that’s not picking at your stitches and ruining all my hard work, Replacement_.’ “What’s even your plan? Like, what’s your endgame? What are you hoping to achieve?”

“I don’t have to be here, Replacement. I could just leave you to rot for the next few months.”

“Nah, you promised I’d get visits every day. No take-backsies. Do you want Robin back, or something? Because you can have it.” That would _suck_ , giving up Robin _again_ , especially because this time he wouldn’t have his dad or Dana or school, but it would suck less than torture-murder. Marginally. “Or we could work out some sort of split-custody arrangement.” That would be better. He rolled the clay into a ball against the floor—his right hand was still incapacitated—then squished it flat.

Jason looked absolutely disgusted. “ _Fuck no_ , I don’t want it back. Why the _fuck_ would I want to go prancing around in panties to get blown up by the Bat again?”

The Joker had blown Jason up, not Bruce. Interesting phrasing. Tim decided not to comment on it until he had more information. Joker and B were Jason’s two main triggers, and Tim didn’t feel like getting beaten up or driving Jason away right then. “You _do_ know you could have worn pants, right?” he said instead. “Like, B didn’t put up any fight when I said I wanted some.”

“Fuck you,” said Jason. “Give me a piece of that.” He held out his hand towards the clay.

“You’re an asshole,” said Tim, because it was true. But he broke off a piece and handed it to Jason.

“Again, I don’t have to be here.” Jason took off his gauntlets to start toying with the stuff.

“Okay, then go.” Tim called his bluff. There was a reason Jason kept coming down here, and it wasn’t—as Jason claimed—that he enjoyed watching Tim suffer.

“Fuck you, I’m making a snake. You can’t stop me.”

Tim, telegraphing nothing, darted out smushed Jason’s snake into the ground.

Victory felt like smushed clay beneath his fingers.

Jason squawked and threatened to dislocate Tim’s thumb if he did that again.

But he didn’t _actually_ dislocate Tim’s thumb. And he’d taken off both his helmet and gloves for today’s fun hang out times.

Progress.

Tim relinquished his grip on Jason’s chunk of clay and tossed it back at him. “Why did you have modeling clay just lying around, anyway?”

“Oh, it’s C-4.”

Tim blinked. “What.”

“It’s C-4.”

Oh, okay. That’s what Tim thought he had said. “I’m not allowed to go upstairs and stand _near the window_ , but you’ll just straight-up give me C-4?”

“C-4 is highly stable, Replacement. You need a shockwave to set it off, won’t even blow if you shoot it or set it on fire. If you can figure out how to detonate it with the stuff in this room, you deserve whatever explosion you get.”

“I hope you know I’m taking that as a challenge.”

Jason grinned. “Feel free, Timberino. It’s not gonna do anything, but you’re welcome to _try._ ”

Tim pouted. “Oh, I will. And I still want to stand next to the window.”

“I’ll get you a sunlamp next time I do a supply run.”

* * *

The Replacement was growing on him. Like a small, annoying mold. And, like a mold, he was potentially deadly. At least to Jason’s plans, if not to Jason himself. Though his ribs and his wrist kept reminding him that ‘not deadly’ didn’t mean ‘not painful.’

But that was fine. Jason actually got a lot done now that ‘torturing the Replacement’ wasn’t on his to-do list. His normal routine of drills and body maintenance, of course, but other things too. He cleaned out the bathroom. He reassembled his engine. He did a supply run and got new bathroom fixtures, a sunlamp, and some over-the-counter pain meds. He kept an almost-regular sleep schedule, reminded by the alarms he’d set to switch off Timmy’s lights. He cooked. After a few days, he started having meals with the Replacement downstairs. It was kind of nice, not eating alone.

Nine days after he’d kidnapped the Replacement—five days from their shootout and subsequent truce—Jason finally forced himself to finish editing the tape and handed it off to one of Talia’s goons at a pre-arranged meeting spot. He’d take it somewhere well out of state and drop it off in a postal box somewhere, unseen. Not traceable back to Jason. Or, hopefully, the League. It was the kind of thing Jason would usually want to do himself, but he couldn’t be away from the kid so long and it was a good idea to have a few layers of separation between him and the tape anyway.

Now it was just a matter of waiting.

Jason hated waiting.

Waiting was boring.

As the days passed, he found himself going down to bug the Replacement more and more.

“You,” said the Replacement, not looking up from his book as he sat on his mattress and read, “are an asshole.” It was his standard greeting.

“Sure am, Timbo. What is it this time?”

“ _Frankenstein_ , Jason? Really?”

“Don’t diss Mary Shelley. She was hardcore.” Jason plopped himself down on the couch and stuck a lollipop in his mouth, threw another one at Tim-Tam. Jason got the red-flavored one, because he was great and also the _Red_ Hood, and Replacement got the grape-flavored one, because he was less great and deserved lesser lollipops.

“It should not be possible for a zombie book to be this boring.” Exhibit A of Replacement’s less greatness. How could anyone think _Frankenstein_ was boring?

“Excuse you. That is one of the greatest works of literature ever penned.”

“Oh God, the rest of literature must really suck then,” said the Replacement as he unwrapped his lollipop.

Jason tried to strangle the outraged squawk that came out of his mouth at that. “Have you never read a book in your life?”

“I read.” Replacement sounded offended. “Just, you know, useful books. About real things.”

Jason stared at him, lollipop hanging out of his mouth. “And what, emotions aren’t real? Themes of life and death and coming back and revenge, loss and grief and mourning, an exploration of what makes someone human, that’s not _real_?”

“I mean, Frankenstein’s not real. Zombies aren’t—” Replacement stopped and flushed. He stuck his lollipop in his mouth.

“Good thing you cut yourself off there, Timmers, seeing as you’re speaking to a zombie and all. And it doesn’t _matter_ that Frankenstein and the Creature aren’t literally real people. The story that it tells is still true.”

“That makes no sense.”

“ _How the fuck_ did you pass English, Replacement? This is elementary school stuff.”

The Replacement shrugged. “It’s pretty easy to figure out what teachers want to hear from the rubric. You don’t need to actually understand it.”

“In _middle school_ , maybe.”

Replacement cocked his head, considered it. “Yeah, fair. I had so many absences freshman and sophomore year because of Robin stuff that I only really passed any of my classes because of Bruce and my dad pulling some strings, and then I dropped out, so...never really got to the part where I had to actually understand themes and metaphors and all that. Plus SparkNotes is a thing.”

It took Jason a few seconds to parse and understand what Replacement was saying. When he did… _oh, that was not fucking okay_. Someone had let this child down, big time. Jason blamed Bruce. And the Replacement's parents, but they were dead, so fuck them.

Jason vaulted over the back of the couch to kneel in front of the Replacement on the mattress. “All right, you uneducated Philistine. Today we’re gonna have a lesson in Literature and Truth. Gimme the book.”

Skeptical, Tim handed it over.

Jason flipped through to the very back, until he found the passage he wanted.

“Shouldn’t you choose a bit from the beginning? I haven’t actually read that much…”

“Hush.” Jason bopped him on the head with the book, making sure his thumb kept his place. “Listen.”

Replacement sighed, but quieted down.

Jason waited for the anticipation to build before he began to read. Several times, Replacement began to shift or talk, only to be silenced with a look from Jason. When he was sure the kid was about to break from the wait, he began, voice soft and certain. “But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing.” Jason brushed a finger across Tim’s neck, where the bruises were still fading.

Tim’s breath hitched, but he was otherwise perfectly still, blue eyes wide as he met Jason’s own.

Jason dropped his hand back to the page, but his eyes didn’t leave Tim’s. He had this passage memorized, anyway. “I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin.”

“There he lies,” Jason broke the stare, nodded to some undefined point behind Tim, “white and cold in death.”

He glanced back at the book to remind himself of the words. Or maybe to give himself somewhere to look. “You hate me, but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.” The words blurred on the page.

“Jason…” Replacement’s voice was barely a whisper as his hand brushed against Jason’s wrist.

“Fear not that I shall be the instrument of some future mischief.” Jason brought his eyes up to meet the Replacement’s once again. “Neither yours nor any man’s death is needed to consummate the series of my being and accomplish that which must be done.”

Either Replacement was trembling or Jason was; he could not tell which. He took a breath, steady, did not break away from Tim’s gaze. “But it requires my own.”

He snapped the book closed without looking at it, set it aside on the threadbare mattress. “Now tell me, Replacement, that that’s not true.”

Tim stared at him. Swallowed. “It’s not true,” he whispered, fervent. His hand had curled around Jason’s injured wrist, _tight tight tight_. He could feel his pulse beating against the stitches held firm in Replacement’s grip. “Jason, it’s not true.”

Jason wanted so badly to flee into the green. For once it wasn’t trying to drag him down, but he needed that rage, that confidence, that certainty. He closed his eyes. Breathed. _You can’t give in when the kid’s in the room_. _You can’t risk hurting the kid_. _More than you already have. Which was a lot._

He rose to leave. He couldn’t be here.

“Don’t go.” Replacement’s hand was still latched around his wrist, and he was half-dragged off the mattress as Jason stood. “Please.”

“I don’t need your _pity_ , Replacement,” Jason spat out.

“It’s not—”

“ _Let go_.” Jason made his voice low and dangerous.

“You asked me what my dream was.” Replacement dropped his hand, but the statement was so out of the blue that Jason didn’t pull away. “That day way back when. With the tea.”

“Yeah,” said Jason, a challenge.

“I lied.” A flash of green, _down._ “Or, I didn’t lie, but I didn’t tell the whole truth either.”

“Mm?” Jason hummed the question as he sank into a crouch, still wary.

“The dream. It’s—I was a civilian, briefly, and Steph became Robin.” And _oh_ , there was bitterness there, buried deep. But Jason knew that feeling, knew its source. _Not good enough, never good enough._

“My dad had found out and threatened to turn us all in if I didn’t retire, so I did. And I tried really hard. To just be normal. To be a kid. Made some friends, even. This one girl, Darla—I don’t know, maybe we could have been more than friends.”

Jason felt like he should be mocking the Replacement about his high school would-be romances, but he had _just_ enough general social awareness left to realize that that would be a bad idea.

“Then the gang war broke out, and Darla was targeted because her dad ran the Odessa Mob. The Ventriloquist’s guys started shooting up the school, but I managed to knock most of them out. I wasn’t Robin, but I couldn’t just let—I got almost everybody evacuated to the gym, and it was just me and Darla and our friend Tyrone, and Darla looked at me and said, ‘I know I’ll be safe with you.’ She went to hug me, and she was shot. Bled out in my arms. Tried to do CPR. Didn’t work.”

“Anyway, my dream is—my dream is that, except I’m the one who shot her, and Steph, and my parents, and—and you.” Tim’s gaze darted up to Jason’s and then away.

“Then there’s the whole bit with Bruce, which I told you about, and everyone’s dead, and the only way I can wake up is if I—I need to take the gun and…” He made a gun shape with two fingers for the barrel, brought it up to his carotid, angled up under his chin, mimed blowing himself away. His face was completely blank. Emotionless. “And every time I wake up, I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t do it preemptively. Because I know I could be that. And the world will be better if I’m not.”

Jason felt something humming in his bones. He’d had the inexplicable urge to tackle the Replacement when he formed his hand-gun, and now the urge was still there but there was nothing to tackle. “Take it from a killer, kid,” said Jason, voice rough. “You’re not.”

“I shot you, Jason. Six times.”

“And you didn’t come anywhere _close_ to killing me.”

Tim looked at him with something approaching scorn, then closed his eyes and shook his head. “We went to the future. The Teen Titans. Me of the future was basically an evil fascist Batman with guns. A mass murderer.”

“That’s not you.”

“Yes, it is. Could be. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to say—it’s not pity.”

Jason exhaled and rocked back on his heels. This was…a lot. He had no idea what to do. He wanted an adult. Except, not any of the adults in his life. A fairytale or TV-adult, who always knew what to do and gave good advice. He wanted… _Alfred_. Alfie would know what to do.

But Alfie wasn’t here. It was just Jason. Jason was the adult. And God, wasn’t that just a kick in the crotch.

_What would Alfred do?_

“C’mon, kid,” he said, standing up and holding out a hand. “This is a hot chocolate and sit by the window and watch the snow kind of situation.”

Tim looked up at him, bewildered. “Really? Upstairs?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Jason grumbled. “And if you run, I will kneecap you. I’m serious.”

Replacement nodded earnestly.

Jason sighed and turned towards the door. “And bring a blanket. You’ve stolen all the good ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time...Steph!! I hope this transition from out-and-out torture to hot chocolate snuggles makes decent sense. Let me know: Too fast? Too slow? (Yes, I am aware that this is a *very* slowburn enemies to brothers Jason & Tim fic, but...you know. It could be EVEN SLOWER)
> 
>  **Misc Notes**  
>  For people in the commonwealth, Tylenol is the brand name for acetaminophen, which is the exact same thing as paracetamol.
> 
> I apologize if Tim does canonically have allergies. I couldn’t remember any or find any when I googled it, but you never know.
> 
> I also have not read Frankenstein since I was eleven and trying to read “grown-up” books, I did not understand it at all, and I barely remember the parts I did understand, so…hope this extended quote works in the context of Frankenstein as well as in the context of the fic.
> 
>  **Alternate C-4 Scene:**  
>  I really liked this bit with the eggs, but ultimately couldn’t fit it in anywhere because Tim demanded real food and Jason promised no torture in the first scene, and that was more important than torture-via-scrambled-egg. I was very sad, because I couldn’t figure out how to include a lot of the funny moments/character insight without the eggs, but THEN, a REVELATION: I got a thing of “therapy dough” (basically lavender-scented play-doh) in a care package, which sparked the incredibly good idea to google how stable C-4 is, and here we are. Anyway, here is the original version:
> 
> “What’s even your plan? Like, what’s your endgame? What are you hoping to achieve?”
> 
> Jason stared at him, shoveling forkfuls of scrambled eggs in his mouth. “I don’t have to be here, Replacement. I could just leave you to rot for the next few months.” Jason talked with his mouth full.
> 
> “Do you want Robin back, or something? Because you can have it.” That would suck, giving up Robin again, especially because this time he wouldn’t have his dad or Dana or school, but it would suck less than torture-murder. Marginally. “Or we could work out some sort of split-custody arrangement.” That would be better.
> 
> Tim eyed the eggs mournfully. They smelled so good. But Jason was an asshole, so he hadn’t brought any for Tim, and was instead eating actually good food in front of him. 
> 
> Tim thought he’d preferred the electricity shooty mcstabby Jason.
> 
> Jason looked absolutely disgusted. “Fuck no, I don’t want it back. Why the fuck would I want to go prancing around in panties to get blown up by the Bat again?”
> 
> The Joker had blown Jason up, not Bruce. Interesting phrasing. Tim decided not to comment on it until he had more information. Joker and B were Jason’s two main triggers, and Tim didn’t feel like getting beaten up right then. “You do know you could have worn pants, right?” he said instead. “Like, B didn’t put up any fight when I said I wanted some.”
> 
> “Fuck you,” said Jason, through a mouthful of eggs.
> 
> “You’re an asshole,” said Tim, because it was true.
> 
> “Again, I don’t have to be here.”
> 
> “Okay, then go.” Tim called his bluff. There was a reason Hood kept coming down here, and it wasn’t—as Hood claimed—that he enjoyed watching Tim suffer.
> 
> “Fuck you, I’m still eating my eggs.”
> 
> Tim, telegraphing nothing, darted out and grabbed a fistful of egg, bringing it up to his mouth.
> 
> Victory tasted like cheesy scrambled eggs.
> 
> Hood dislocated Tim’s pinky in retaliation for the theft.
> 
> He threatened to shoot him if Tim did it again, but didn’t actually shoot him. And he helped Tim re-set the finger.
> 
> Progress.


	11. Steph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Splitting Steph's triumphant return into two chapters, and then we can get into Kidnapping Round Two: Electric Boogaloo :) Next few chapters are mostly written, but I'm having trouble with keeping Steph's voice consistent, so might switch some scenes around to be from Babs' or Jason's perspective instead.
> 
> This wasn't supposed to have as much YJ Core-4 stuff in it as it does, but then I saw some of y'all's comments, and started to get *ideas*. This will still be mainly Batfam, but Kon, Cassie and Bart are there in the background, doing their thing and caring about Tim.

Steph wasn’t sure what she had expected, coming back to Gotham. She was still—not great, physically. It had been five and half months, and her hands were still all sorts of fucked up. She was in the process of rebuilding her muscle mass. Her endurance was shot. Her body felt…wrong. Not hers. Out of her control.

The last time she’d felt so unsettled in her own skin was when she’d been pregnant. But that had been different. Temporary. _Her choice_. She’d _chosen_ to carry that baby, whose name she would never know. And something good had come out of it. Life.

She’d chosen to walk the path that led to her death, too. But it still felt…different.

She’d thought maybe being back in the city would make her feel more grounded, give her some clarity. But if anything, it was making it worse, from the moment she stepped off the bus. Everything was humming, wrong.

It was Gotham, just as _Gotham_ as it always was. Took her all of twenty seconds to find out Black Mask was the new top player in town. That was her fault. But otherwise the city was the same. Just like after No Man’s Land, the city oozed out of its own ashes and kept on going, nevermind for the dead.

She felt like her death should have made the city feel different. But it didn’t.

That was morbid. She wasn’t normally so introspective, and that also felt wrong, being so caught in her own head. But if _dying_ wasn’t going to make you think about things…

Steph sighed. She was stalling. Time to face the music. It had been nice, to get away, to have some time for healing. She understood why Doc Thompkins had done it, spirited her away from the operating table after she’d flatlined. Twice.

“You’re a child, Stephanie,” she’d said. “You need to be safe. I won’t let you go back there.”

And Steph _was_ grateful to the doc. Glad she hadn’t died permanently. Relieved to have some time away, to think things through. But it wasn’t the goddamn doc’s choice, what she did with her life. Steph was in this, now. She had Gotham in her veins and violence in her lungs. She was a vigilante, through and through. She’d made that decision for herself, and she wasn’t backing down.

And if Doc Thompkins and Batman and her mom and whoever else didn’t agree? They could all kindly go fuck themselves.

Steph grinned. Gotham felt wrong, she felt wrong, undead and unliving, but there was only one way to fix that: pound that pavement, baby. Spoiler was back.

Once she made herself a new uniform. And got a base of operations. And maybe lunch.

She went to Tim’s place first. Except Tim wasn’t there. Some random family was. Steph had no idea who they were.

Okay, so Tim had moved. Ugh, _legwork_. This _sucked_. And, yeah, sure, she _could_ just go to the cave and make contact from there, but, God, she really didn’t want to deal with Batman’s paranoia. He’d probably lock her in a cage somewhere until she proved she wasn’t a shapeshifter or a clone or something. And that was, like, the opposite of what she needed.

What she needed was a good, long hug and to punch someone. And some waffles. Maybe waffles first. That was easiest.

It was getting to late afternoon when Steph realized she had nowhere to spend the night. She’d been planning to stay with Tim or Cass. She couldn’t—she couldn’t face her mom quite yet. Her _mom_ , who still thought she was dead.

But Tim and Cass were nowhere to be found. She did some poking around online, using the Wi-Fi in a run-down cafe—nothing too egregious that would attract Oracle’s attention; that was another conversation she didn’t want to have. Steph was nowhere near Babs’ class when it came to hacking, but she wasn’t half-bad either. Coding was puzzles, and as much as she hated it, Steph was Cluemaster’s daughter.

What she found was— _fuck_. Tim’s dad was dead. Four days after she’d ‘died.’ That really sucked. It had sucked when _her_ dad died, and her dad was a grade-A abusive asshole. Tim’s dad was like, a C-grade abusive asshole, at best. Neglectful and distant and pigheaded, constantly toeing the line of outright violence, but at least he’d _tried_. And Tim had loved him.

She needed to find him.

According to records online, he was living with his uncle in Bludhaven. Tim didn’t have an uncle, so that was either some Tim chicanery or some Bat chicanery. Either way, dead end, not worth digging into. Not helpful. Cass just straight-up didn’t exist online. Neither Robin nor Batgirl had been reliably sighted for weeks. Injured? Undercover? Training?

…Dead?

 _No. Don’t think like that. Just because you sort of temporarily not-even-died, doesn’t mean everyone else will_.

Steph groaned, exageratingly loud, and thumped her head on the rickety cafe table. When she got glares, she cheerfully flipped them all off. _Come at me, motherfuckers_. She was spoiling(ha!) for a fight, and Gotham was usually happy to oblige.

Not today, though. No, today, everyone just _had_ to be on their tip-top manners. Gross. Unsatisfying. Disgusting. Ew.

She threw some money down on the table—enough for the waffle and a good tip, she wasn’t an _animal_ —and headed to her nearest local sketchy alleyway. Scoped it out. She was alone, for now.

She flipped open a burner phone she’d picked up at the bus stop and considered her options. She’d wanted to surprise them, thought it would be best to explain in person, but…yeah. Best play here was to call Tim, set up somewhere to meet.

Except Tim didn’t pick up his phone. Or his backup phone. Or his super-secret-second-backup-burner.

Steph pushed down a stirring of uneasiness. Tim was fine. He was just…busy on patrol. At 4:30 in the afternoon, when the sun was still shining. Or sleeping. Bats kept odd hours.

But Cass didn’t pick up either.

 _Shit_.

Okay. She tapped a purple-painted fingernail on the side of her burner. Calling Babs or Dick would be the equivalent of calling Bruce, and she _really, really_ didn’t want to deal with Batman before she at least got to see that her two best friends were alive and well.

 _Think_ , Steph.

Oh. _Duh_. Tim had friends who weren’t her. They would know where he was. Calling Titans Tower was out of the question if she wanted to stay off Batman’s radar. But even B didn’t actively monitor the civilian lines of other superheroes. Passively, perhaps—she never knew for sure—but he definitely didn’t have the _time_ to listen to every single seemingly-innocuous call that went to a super.

So, tracking down a super’s civilian number. The first, last, and only time she’d had a conversation with Kon, he’d been trying to beat her up because she wasn’t Tim, so…she’d call him before she called _Batman_ , but that wasn’t saying much. She had no idea how to track down Bart Allen in his civilian identity. Did he even have parents?

Thankfully, Helena Sandsmark had her work phone number listed on the Gateway City Museum of Antiquities website. Steph hummed and picked at her nails as she listened to the phone ringing.

“Gateway City Museum of Antiquities, this is Helena Sandsmark speaking.”

“Ms. Sandsmark, hi!” Stephanie put on a huge fake smile and bounced on her feet. “Um, this is kind of embarrassing, but I’m supposed to be working on a group project with Cassie, and I _completely_ lost her number to coordinate things, like a _total doofus_ , and we don’t really have many mutual friends, so I was wondering if maybe you could put us in touch?”

“Oh.” Stephanie could hear the pleasant surprise in Ms. Sandsmark’s voice, caught off-guard by Steph’s youth and bubbly-ness and not-museumness. “I tell you what: give me your number, and I’ll have Cassie call you. What did you say your name was, again?” And _there_ was the well-guarded suspicion. Good. She wasn’t giving out Wonder Girl’s personal info to random strangers just because they sounded pretty and purply on the phone.

“Steph,” said Steph. “Stephanie Draper. I’m Alvin Draper’s sister.” She wasn’t sure if Tim had ever used the alias around Cassie, but it was worth a shot. She listed off the burner phone’s number in an easy reel.

“All right, dear. I’ll pass along your message.”

“Thanks, Ms. Sandsmark. I really appreciate it. And I’d be really grateful if you could ask Cassie to call me soon. We’re on kind of a deadline.” She smiled and bobbed apologetically at the grimy alley wall to make it come through in her voice. Hopefully that should get the message through, and fast, whether or not Helena Sandsmark suspected Steph was involved in all that vigilante bullshit.

She was considering whether she ought to move alleyways or find a place to bunker down when her phone rang, lit up with an unknown number.

“That was fast,” she remarked, raising an eyebrow at a nearby dumpster rat, who hissed back at her. Ah, good ol’ Gotham.

“Hello?” She answered the phone and held it between her head and shoulder, fake smile back in place.

“Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing calling my mother?”

“Woah.” Steph raised her hands beseechingly, even though Cassie couldn’t see it. The rat eyed her as if she’d suddenly become prey. _Not you_ , she mouthed at it, and bared her teeth in a silent snarl. She barely remembered to soften it back into a smile before turning back to Cassie. “I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. Sorry about that. I’m on your side, I swear.”

“Talk.”

“Okay, okay. Just an FYI, I don’t know about your end, but my end is just a very cheap burner, not encrypted at all and I’m alone but on a public street, so I’m gonna have to be a bit…oblique.” _Oblique_. That was a good word. She’d learned it when she was eight or nine, from her dad’s filled out New York Times Crossword. ‘Like some references (7).’ It was also a very bat-way of doing things. Speaking _around_ , not about. But Steph was kinda a bat. Or she had been.

She took a breath, considered what to say. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we met once during that whole, um, Zandia thing. I’m a friend of Tim’s? I wore a lot of purple.”

There was a brief silence, then, “Nice try. The girl you’re talking about is dead. Who are you really?”

“Wow, I hadn’t realized the whole community knew about that. I thought I hadn’t really busted the radar outside Gotham.”

“ _She_ didn’t. But she mattered to Tim, and now you’re using her name to try and get at us, and _I won’t let you_.”

“Um, wow. Okay. Good protective instincts, don’t get me wrong, I just…okay, lemme level with you: I _was_ dead, but only briefly, like, two minutes, max, and I had to… _go away_ for a bit, and I couldn’t tell Tim. _Family_ business.” Meaning _Bat Business_ , meaning _fuck off_. “You’ve gotta know how it is, working with them. Secrets on secrets, even with each other.”

And okay, it wasn’t actually Bat business, kind of the exact opposite, but damn if that wasn’t a useful excuse.

“Hmm.” Cassie still sounded skeptical, but that was a step up from her outright hostility of a few seconds ago.

“Anyway, I got back to Gotham this morning, and things are _weird_ and I can’t find Tim, he’s not picking up his phone, and no one will tell me anything.” Granted, she hadn’t _asked_ anyone who would actually know, but that wasn’t technically a lie, so she should be good. That was totally how that worked.

God, she _was_ a bat.

She sighed, ran a finger through her hair. “I just, you’re one of his best friends, and the only one I could figure out how to contact without Big B jumping down my throat, which I’m sure neither of us wants. I get if he doesn’t want to see me or something, if he’s mad that I didn’t tell him I’m alive, but…I just, I was hoping you could get us in contact again, or at the very least, just let me know he’s okay.”

Silence on the other side of the phone. No, not silence. Breathing. “They didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me _what_?”

“Okay, let me think. Just give me a second.”

“ _Cassie, tell me what?_ ”

* * *

“Fuck.” Steph surveyed the evidence laid out in front of her on the barn’s floor. Which, wow, it was disorienting and kind of awesome being flown halfway across the country in only a few minutes, but she had bigger things to worry about.

Things like ‘Dead Robin #3’ written in Tim’s blood on the Titans common room, Tim himself gone, taken by the Red Hood.

“Yeah,” said Kon, short and bitter. “Fuck.” He was glaring at Steph. Well, that wasn’t exactly fair. Kon was glaring at _everybody_. Steph, Cassie, and Bart Allen, all gathered in the Kent’s barn in Smallville. All of the ‘Core Four’—the founding members of the new Teen Titans, the ones who’d been on Young Justice together. Except for Tim. Because Tim was kidnapped. Or maybe dead. They’d thoroughly grilled her on Tim’s favorite foods and sleeping habits before deciding to trust that she was probably who she said she was. In the absence of Tim, they were all trying to out-paranoia each other. Tim would be proud. Steph ached at the _weight_ of his absence hanging in the room.

“Yeah, it’s very much not good,” Bart agreed. “And the Bats aren’t exactly being forthcoming with information, which is _so_ not crash. So spill.”

Steph shook her head. Everyone except her was in full hero get-up, and she felt a bit underdressed in a purple hoodie and jeans. “I honestly had no idea what was going on until I got here. I’ve been completely out of the game for _months_. I just got back to Gotham, and I could tell pretty quick that something was wrong, so I called Cassie, and, well…you know the rest.”

“Yeahokaybut what did Bats say?” Bart had a tendency to run his words together, and Steph had to work a bit to understand him. “I overheard Cyborg telling Beast Boy that Nightwing said that Red Hood had sent Bats some kind of tape, and Cy and Oracle were going over it, but he wouldn’t share the details.”

Steph blinked, trying to follow that horrendous chain of information. “Okay, that sounds ominous. But it probably means he’s alive? I don’t actually know what’s going on with the Bats. I wanted to find Tim first, before B locked me up in some dark cell in a fit of paranoia. Tim would get me out of a cell. Or Cass would, but I can’t find Cass either.”

Both boys threw confused looks at Cassie Sandsmark.

“She’s the new Batgirl,” Steph clarified. “Or she was five months ago. Do you guys know her? Or do you know where she is?”

Bart frowned. “Ollie told Mia that Batgirl was undercover with some Justice League thing and she can’t be contacted a few weeks.” He chewed his lip. “That was almost two weeks ago, though, right after…”

 _Ollie…Oliver Queen?_ “Who’s Mia?” she asked.

“Speedy,” said Cassie, which confirmed who Ollie was.

“Okay.” Steph tried to arrange all this information in her head.

“Wait, back up.” Conner’s tone said he was looking for a fight. “Why would Batman throw you in a cell?”

Steph sighed. She’d hoped they would miss that slip-up. “Okay, so the Bats might all still think I’m dead, and Batman is definitely paranoid enough to lock me up until he figures out I’m not an evil clone or something.” She glanced at Conner. “Uh, sorry.”

He shrugged, but his eyes didn’t soften. “I thought you told Cass that you being dead-but-not-dead was a Bat thing.”

 _Cass?_ Oh, Cassie. God, this was gonna be confusing. “Yeah, okay, I maybe fudged the truth a little bit there. It was more of a doctor-rescued-slash-kidnapped-me- _from-_ Batman thing than a Batman-sanctioned thing.”

“You call that _fudging the truth_?” Cassie sounded _mad_. “What the fuck is up with you Bats and not telling anyone anything and lying about it, and Tim could be _dead_ , he could be dead right now, and we wouldn’t even know it, and that would be on you!”

Steph reared back. “Fuck you. This isn’t my fault. I wasn’t even here. _You all_ are the ones who let Tim get kidnapped from right under your noses!”

“Yeah, you _weren’t_ here!” Conner butt in. “You’ve been alive this whole time, and Tim was utterly _destroyed_ , and now you think you can just come gallavanting about back and swoop in for the rescue? It doesn’t work like that!”

“You can also suck mud. I’m just trying to look out for one of my best friends in the entire world, and fuck you if you’re not going to help me just because of your own stupid grudgematch against me.”

“He’s got a point.” Bart was closing ranks, but at least he wasn’t yelling. “Why should we even trust you when you hurt Tim by lying about being dead? How do we even know that you don’t have something to do with him getting kidnapped? If _you_ were kidnapped, and now you’re back, and now _he_ ’s kidnapped… You gotta admit the timing is, like, super suspicious. Just the absolute mode.”

“Oh, well _excuse me_ for being tortured by Black Mask until I _died_ on the operating table and then being too injured to go anywhere until just now. Look, my kidnapping torture shit doesn’t have anything to do with Tim’s kidnapping torture shit.”

“How do you _know_ , though? Bart’s right; that’s super suspicious.”

“Because Leslie Thompkins is a damn good doctor who would _never_ work for a villain. She faked my death and smuggled me out of the country because she thought if I stayed, I was going to get killed for real, and I disagreed with her which is why I came back as soon as I got enough of my strength back, but now I’m beginning to think she had a _point_ if this is what’s happened to Tim in my absence with you all looking over him!”

That set off another round of shouting that only ended when Martha Kent came round with a platter of apple turnovers and a stern look that would put Alfred to shame.

“Sorry, Ma.” Conner blushed and ducked his head, looking strangely small and sheepish in front of the woman who barely came up to his chin. It was almost funny, how absolutely cowed he looked in her presence, despite his superhero uniform and the truly excessive amount of muscles he had for someone who didn’t even need to work out, plus the hair teased up to an impressive height and the eyeliner and earrings and glasses and the spiked shoulders of his leather jacket all screaming a very punk-rock ‘I don’t listen to authority.’ But obviously he did, if that authority was Martha Kent.

“Wasn’t me you were hollering at fit to wake the dead, Conner.” She handed him a turnover and pat his arm.

“Sorry, Steph,” Connor mumbled. “I’m stressed about Tim, and I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

Steph would have smirked in his face, but now _she_ had the full force of the Martha Kent gaze of expectation bearing down upon her, so all she could do was mumble out her own shamefaced apologies and take a turnover. Cassie and Bart each went through their own rounds with Martha, which Martha won handily without even breaking a sweat.

Steph bit into the turnover. It was absolute heaven. Just, divine. “Did you make these, Mrs. Kent?” she asked, eyes widening as flaky crumbs fell from her mouth. Quickly, she swallowed down her bite. “They’re amazing.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Martha Kent reprimanded, but there was a fond smile in her eyes. “Heathens, the whole lot of you.” She snagged Bart’s hand before he could grab a pastry. Bart, who had been moving at super speed. “Let everybody else have seconds before you take fifths.”

“Sorry, Ma.” Bart looked at the ground and scuffed his toes in the dirt.

Mrs. Kent turned back to Stephanie, slipping Bart his fifths as she did so. “And I sure did. Been trying something new in the kitchen, more portable than pie. And call me Ma, dear. Everybody does.”

Steph stared at her. “Can I be you when I grow up?”

Conner stared at her. “ _No one_ could ever be as cool as Ma.”

Steph shrugged, accepting it. “A girl can dream.”

Ma Kent nodded sagely and handed Bart his sixth and seventh turnovers. “Now that y’all have got that out of your systems, how about you actually discuss what you know and start coming up with a plan to get that young man of yours back.”

Two hours later, they had a workable plan. Sort of. Steph, as the resident authority on bats, Gotham, and kidnapped Robins, was going to go information-gathering. She’d start with the Bats, as all her info would be way out of date, and it would be easier for her to piggyback off of what they’d already done. If she hadn’t checked back in with them in forty-eight hours, then Superboy, Wonder Girl, and Kid Flash (she’d thought it was Impulse, but whatever; it wasn’t like she had a leg to stand on when it came to taking on titles that had been used by other heroes) would come in for a rescue mission.

Then they’d make the actual plan from there.

Which was how Stephanie found herself locked in a containment cell with Nightwing, Oracle, and Agent A all hovering outside, readying herself for a battle of wills with Batman. And speak of the devil, here came the man himself.

Steph breathed in as B’s acolytes parted like water to let him pass. She was going to win this. She had to. Tim’s _life_ was on the line.

She met his brooding glare with a challenging stare. “Yeah, yeah, I came all the way back from the dead, it’s miraculous or whatever.” Babs and Dick and Alfred had been strangely caught up on that bit, even when she’d explained that it was simple human trickery. That wasn’t what _mattered_ right now, and Tim didn’t have the _time_ to get into all that with B.

So Stephanie Brown, recently resurrected Robin, leaned into the glass of her cell at stared down Batman. “I have a very important question for you, and you’re gonna answer it honestly. Where. _The fuck._ Is Tim?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Steph's POV, here is a timeline of Steph-as-Robin, all the way to her death! Please note that a lot of this stuff is from the War Games crossover event thing, which was stupid and I hate it. Not only because of how it did my girl dirty, but also because it's super hard to read because you have to track down all the different comics. This timeline is definitely missing a _lot_ of War Games stuff, but I think you can still follow the story pretty easily reading just these guys. IMO, the main interesting Batfam stuff that is happening and isn't included is that Dick is still reeling from the Tarantula/Blockbuster thing, which _just_ happened, and now Tarantula is in Gotham working with Batman! Thanks, I hate it :)
> 
>   * Robin Vol. 2 #126 [Steph becomes Robin]
>   * Robin 80th Anniversary 100-Page Super Spectacular [This is a collection of one-shots published in 2020, and has stories for Dick, Jason, Tim, Steph, Damian, and Carrie as Robin]
>   * Robin Vol. 2 #127 [Steph as Robin]
>   * Batgirl # 53 [Steph & Cass team up!]
>   * Detective Comics Vol 1 # 796 [Steph as Robin]
>   * Teen Titans Vol. 3 #13 [Kon comes to Gotham looking for Tim, and fights Steph!]
>   * Robin Vol. 2 #128 [Steph gets fired from being Robin]
>   * Batgirl #54 [This one is mainly Cass, but it’s a great issue. Steph tells Cass she was fired]
>   * Batman: The 12-Cent Adventure #1 [Steph sparks off the gang war]
>   * Robin Vol. 2 #129 [Tim’s school gets shot up]
>   * Batgirl #55 [Cass runs into Steph, tries to follow, but is called away to rescue Tim]
>   * Catwoman Vol 3 # 34 [Selina finds Spoiler, brings her to a safehouse, Steph tells Selina what happened]
>   * Batman #631 [Batman, Batgirl, & Nightwing clear out Tim’s school]
>   * Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight Vol 1 183 [Steph & Selina stuff—Steph finds out why the plan went wrong]
>   * Batman: Gotham Knights Vol 1 57 [Steph goes out to try and fix what went wrong, comes across Black Mask]
>   * Robin Vol. 2 #130 [Steph gets captured & tortured by Black Mask, who is super creepy sexual predator-y about it]
>   * Batgirl #56 [Cass goes on a rampage looking for Steph]
>   * Catwoman Vol 3 # 35 [Spoiler breaks free of her restraints]
>   * Robin Vol. 2 #131 [Steph beats Black Mask, almost kills him but decides not to shoot. Black Mask overpowers her and shoots her. This is where Black Mask’s parting words come from]
>   * Batgirl #57 [Black Mask takes over the city, attacks the watchtower]
>   * Batman #633 [Steph dies—B tells her that it was real, that she was Robin, & promises to take care of her kid]
>   * Detective Comics #800 [Reaction to Steph’s death]
>   * Batman #634 [Bruce, Dick, and Alfred drink and go over what happened over the last few days]
>   * Robin #132 [Tim & Cass mourning and starting life in Bludhaven, going after Penguin]
>   * Batgirl #58 [same]
>   * Robin #133 [same]
>   * Batgirl #59 [same]
>   * Batman #635 [Bruce mourns Steph. Lots of Jason parallels. Red Hood first appears on the scene.]
>   * Robin #134 [Tim mourning]
>   * There’s more stuff with Cass dealing with grief over Steph’s death all the way to the end of Batgirl Vol. 1, but that stuff happens after this fic splits off from canon, so…I’m gonna ignore it here, even though that means that Cass will never have quite as many near-death hallucinations of Steph as she does in canon :(
> 

> 
> ALSO, because this takes place _before_ War Crimes, I’m completely ignoring that arc [where Steph’s identity as Spoiler is publicly revealed posthumously and Batman finds out that Dr. Thompkins purposefully let Steph die]. Because…no.
> 
> The Zandia thing mentioned was when Steph was Spoiler, and took place in Young Justice #49—51: YJ basically gathered up all their friends and invaded a whole fucking country, ya know, as you do


	12. Barbara & Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I stg this was originally planned as a gooddad!Bruce fic, but for some reason that pesky issue of child soldiers keeps coming up…and I’m really salty about how Steph’s death was treated in canon. So, this is now a…D+ person Bruce Wayne? (I say person, not parent, because he’s not Steph’s dad.) Bruce… _wants_ to be good? And he’s trying and is slowly realizing exactly how wrong he was. Steph is a major part of that, and this chapter deals with a lot of the ramifications of his ‘throw children at criminals who enjoy torturing children’ style of crimefighting.
> 
> I maintain the main difference between this fic and canon is that Steph is actually and consistently acknowledged here—especially by Jason—as a real Robin. And that’s why it will have a happy ending. 
> 
> Anywhoo, now that we’ve got some character stuff going on between the batgirls, I’ve updated the tags accordingly. I've added several whole scenes that were not in the outline!! Especially between the three Batgirls. I'm really happy with them and excited about how they'll fit into some thematic stuff I'm trying to do.
> 
> General TWs apply as always, with special notice for child abuse, child soldier shit, flashbacks of torture, & ableism :(
> 
> Also, I have no idea how this chapter got so long, but you lucky ducks get to enjoy 7.5k words of pure angst, so...you're welcome ~(‾⌣‾~)
> 
> Take care of yourselves! <3

Babs sighed and cleaned her glasses with her shirt. “It’s her.”

“We can’t be sure of that.”

“Bruce. We’ve run every test there is, she knows the answers to all of our security and personal information questions, and she gave a thorough and comprehensive report of how exactly she was passed off as ‘dead’ and where she’s been.” And Babs was sure they’d be tracking down Leslie Thompkins in the near future to discuss _that_ , as soon as they got Tim back. “It’s her. Let’s get her out of the holding cell and into a bed.”

“It’s not that simple. Even if this is the real Stephanie...” And so it went on.

Babs rubbed her temples. They’d been going around in circles for _hours_ now. She slid her phone out of her pocket and sent a quick ‘SOS’ to Dick.

“… _already_ compromised the safety of the city once, and sparked off a gang war. She made no attempt to contact us in the five and half months she has been absent, and then immediately contacted a group of outsiders when she did return to the city. It would be imprudent to allow such a security risk to—”

“Pretty sure no one’s saying we give her the keys to the Batmobile, B. Just a bed for the night and some modicum of human decency.” _Finally_ , Dick had responded to her plea for help.

Bruce cut him an annoyed glare. “We can’t—”

“Oh my God, do I have to call Alfie in on this one? He’s already made up a guest room, so all you’re doing is causing us to lose more sleep by being a paranoid, stubborn asshole.”

Bruce grumbled, but if Alfred had spoken, it was a done deal.

“Great, that’s settled then.” Babs cut in. “I’m going to take a bath, Dick and Alfred can get Steph settled in, and Bruce can have his scheduled nightly brooding.”

She ignored the glare Bruce sent her and wheeled to the room set just next to the showers. Besides the computers, this was definitely her favorite part of the cave: a truly heavenly bathtub set into the floor, basically a jacuzzi that could drain itself, deep and wide and fully accessible. It almost made it worth dealing with B’s overbearingness. Almost.

She lowered herself out of her chair to sit next to the tub, turned the faucets on and waited for it to fill up. Closed her eyes and let the sound of running water and hot steam wash over her as she stripped and set her clothes on a nearby bench. She was exhausted. Steph was alive.

Steph was alive and back, and she hadn’t told them she was alive. Barbara couldn’t quite help thinking, in some superstitious corner of her brain, that it was a trade: Steph was back because Tim was gone, or vice versa. She tried to tamp down on that thought.

She sighed and lowered herself into the water using the built-in handrails, sinking onto the underwater bench and laying her head back against the tiled floor. She pressed the jacuzzi button and let it run. There were some things that were nice about being a billionaire, she could grant Bruce that much.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Mm?” She called.

“Miss Gordon, I was simply wondering whether you might like me to make up your usual room for the night tonight, as it is getting rather late for you to return home.”

It _did_ sound nice not to have to drag herself into her car and drive home, however much she hated feeling like she was in debt to the Waynes. And she should probably talk to Steph. “Yeah, Alfred, that would be amazing. Thank you so much.”

“Of course, Miss Gordon. It is no trouble at all.”

She stayed soaking until her fingers shriveled up and the water began to cool. It was almost 4:30am by the time she emerged from the elevator into the manor proper and wheeled herself down the guest corridor.

There was a warm light peeking through the crack two doors down from her room. She rapped her knuckles softly against the doorframe. “Steph?”

Some quiet movement, and Steph opened the door, in soft navy sweats with her blonde hair wet and hanging down to her waist. Barbara eyed her outfit and smiled. “We match.”

“Bat couture.” Steph nodded solemnly. “You wanna come in?”

“If you’re up for it.”

“I mean, I’m tired, but I’m not exhausted yet. Was just about to braid my hair and turn in.”

Babs nodded and accepted the invitation. “You want a hand with the braid?”

“If you’re volunteering, sure.”

Babs nodded and motioned for Steph to sit on the bed, facing away from her. She pulled her chair right up next to the bed and lifted herself over onto the mattress for the best angle. “Fishtail?”

“Oooh, yes please. I can never get those quite right.”

“It’s just practice. And time.”

“Yeah, I really only braid my hair to sleep, and it never seems worth the effort to do it.”

Babs hummed in acknowledgement and started the braid, fingers moving quick and sure. She was silent for a few moments, trying to think what exactly they needed to talk about.

“Why didn’t you call?” She tried to keep the hurt, the judgment out of her voice. She wasn’t sure if she succeeded.

Steph squirmed a bit, shrugged. “I didn’t—at first, I _couldn’t_. It was touch and go for _weeks_ , according to Leslie. And I could’ve, I guess, gotten a phone and reached out once I was conscious, but…” She sighed. “I was _so tired_ , Babs. I could only stay awake for a few hours at a time, and even _thinking_ took so much effort. And I really fucked up. I activated Bruce’s plan, like an idiot, without knowing all the pieces, and I caused a _gang war_ , and so many people _died_ , and I just…I felt like such a _failure_.” Her voice broke.

Barbara didn’t offer any comfort—that wasn’t her style—but she also didn’t stop the steady weave of Steph’s hair, _under, over, and across_.

“I wanted to _at least_ be able to hold a conversation, to walk on my own for more than five feet. I didn’t want any of you to see me broken, and I was so _ashamed_ …” She trailed off, furiously wiped away tears. “And I didn’t want B to come down on Doc Thompkins. At least, not while I was still a liability to her. She can hold her own, but not if she’s trynna cover for me too. Because, yeah, I was mad that she basically kidnapped me without my consent and let you all and _my mom_ think I was dead, but…she was trying to save me. I didn’t want her to get hurt.”

Barbara tied off the braid with one of her own spare hair ties. “Why’d you come back then?”

Steph shook her head helplessly. “I couldn’t _not_. It’s Gotham; this city is in my blood. It needs me, or I need it. _You all_ need me, obviously, if this is the mess I come back to.”

Babs huffed and smacked her shoulder.

Steph smiled, turning partway around to dangle her feet off the side of the bed. “And I needed to see my mom. She doesn’t deserve…she should know I’m alive.” She kicked bare feet against the bedframe.

Babs hummed. “Do you want me to drive you over there in the morning? Or, afternoon, more accurately.”

Steph took a breath. “I—I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to face her yet. Does that make me a coward?” She looked up to Babs, and Barbara was struck once again by the fact that Steph was _sixteen_ , still a child, still painfully young.

Barbara threaded her fingers through Steph’s, trying to hide her wince as her fingers brushed over ghoulish raised scars, scars from wounds that no child, no _person_ , should have had to endure. “There are many words I would use to describe you, Stephanie Brown,” she said. “ _Coward_ isn’t one of them.”

She sighed when Stephanie looked unconvinced. “It’s okay, you know? To be hurt. To be scared. To mess up. To need some time to recover. Everybody does. God knows I was a reclusive mess for months after the Joker—” she gestured to her spine. “It’s not your fault when someone hurts you. It doesn’t make you weak, or wrong, or broken.”

Steph frowned, and her grip around Babs’ hand tightened. “Thanks.”

Babs nodded, didn’t push. “You don’t have to suffer through it alone. In fact, it’s better if you have people around you, trust me on that one.” She scooted herself back into her wheelchair, spun to face Steph head-on. “We’re here for you, kiddo.”

Steph smiled, a half-hearted thing, but it was there. “And we’ll get Tim and Cass back, and then we can all suffer together.”

Babs huffed a laugh. “That’s what friends are for, I guess.”

Steph nodded, squeezed and took back her hand. She hesitated. “Cass is really okay?”

Barbara met her eyes. “She’s really okay. She’s undercover—super top secret, I can’t tell you the details—but she’s undercover with a cult that wants to end the world and has a _thing_ against technology, so we have super limited ways to contact her, especially since”—Babs winced, remembering her last disasterous conversation with Cass—“she can’t read.”

She _definitely_ didn’t manage to keep the thick guilt from her voice, but thankfully Stephanie didn’t press. “We got a message in through an intermediary, and Cass will be wrapping stuff up with the assignment and be back in Gotham in four days. We should be able to get her on comms the day after tomorrow. Or, I guess it would technically be tomorrow, now.”

Steph nodded. “Four days. Okay. We’ll get them back. We’ll get them both back.”

“Yeah,” said Barbara, trying to put every ounce of faith into what she was pretty sure was a lie, “we will.”

* * *

“Are you seriously—?” The Replacement sputtered in outrage. “Like a _dog_?”

Jason shrugged, nonchalant. “If that’s how you want to think about it, sure, Replacement.”

“If that’s how I—?!” He laughed. “ _No_.”

“Okay, then. No go. That’s fine.”

Replacement looked ready to throttle him. Jason resisted the urge to cackle in his face.

“There is no reason to—”

“Not letting you call your Kryptonian buddy.”

Replacement, swimming in Jason’s sweats, tried to stare him down. Unfortunately, it was pretty dang hard to win a staring contest against a helmet, so Jason won.

“Seriously?” Timmy asked, but he sounded more resigned than outraged now.

“Yup,” said Jason. “You’ve got a sunlamp, and I’m letting you upstairs for dinner now.”

“Yeah, if I’m _shackled_ ,” Tim muttered.

“Hush. That’s a reasonable safety precaution.”

“There’s nothing _reasonable_ about the number of wrought-iron chains you have lying around.”

“Agree to disagree, Timbo. You want to go outside, or not?”

Tim sighed. “ _Fine_.”

“Okay, then it’s settled. Normal upstairs procedures still apply; you know the drill.”

Still pouting, the Replacement turned around, hands behind his back for Jason to chain.

“No need to be a baby about it, Replacement.”

“Bite me, asshole.”

Jason just chuckled and went about securing the kid. And, sure, the restraints _looked_ excessive, but the shackles on his wrists and ankles, welded together—no loose chain that could be used as a weapon—was _barely_ enough for what Jason considered appropriate to hold a Robin. He ran a length of chain from the kid’s wrist shackles to his ankle shackles, and linked another chain to the middle of that length, out of reach of the Replacement’s hands without the kid contorting awkwardly.

“Fricking _leash_ ,” Replacement grumbled.

Jason yanked the chain in response, and Tim yelped as he crashed down to his knees, unable to break the fall with the way he was chained. “Asshole.”

Jason smirked. “It’s effective, Replacement.”

“You’re still an asshole.”

“Yeah, but you don’t get to complain about it. Mouth.”

The kid awkwardly hopped up to his feet. “You suck, and you’re an ass—”

Jason cut off the end of Timmy’s whining by stuffing a rag in his mouth. The kid glared, but didn’t spit it out as he let Jason tie it in place and put a full-on leather muzzle over the top. It was a bit disturbing what League safehouses came pre-stocked with.

“All righty, Replacement. Let’s go.”

Tim sent him a baleful look, but shuffled forward towards the exit.

Jason quickly got bored with the very slow penguin waddle that the chains necessitated. “You wanna be carried, Replacement?”

Replacement made some kind of noise that sure _sounded_ negative, accompanied by shaking his head, but Jason chose to take it as a yes. “Okey dokey, up you go.”

Replacement squirmed and protested as he shifted the kid into a bridal carry, and Jason laughed.

Replacement head-butted his chest, right where his ribs were still bruised. Little shit.

Jason hissed and shifted his grip. “You want me to drop you down these stairs? I can.”

Replacement stared at him flatly.

Jason let go of the arm that was supporting the kid’s back, so that he was dangling upside-down for the rest of the journey. “I could have made you hop up the stairs. I’m being _nice_. See?”

Replacement curled himself up as much as the chains allowed—even with his limited range of motion, it was a pretty impressive feat of core strength—to make sure that Jason saw it when he rolled his eyes.

Jason scoffed and reverted back to a bridal carry just in time to open the door to upstairs. “Now who’s the asshole?”

It was amazing how well Replacement could communicate, ‘ _still you_ ’ without saying a single word.

Jason took immense pleasure in dumping the kid into a snow flurry outside.

Replacement squawked—or tried to, the noise was swallowed so completely that even _Jason_ could barely hear it, and he was standing right next to the kid—but didn’t even try to get up. Instead, he lay back in the snow bank and tipped his head upwards, letting the sun play over the uncovered portion of his face.

Jason watched carefully, looping the free end of the chain leash around his wrist, but Replacement made no move to escape. Instead he just lay in the snow, eyes closed, a few silent tears trickling down his face.

Jason chose to believe that those were from the cold. He shifted a bit so that Replacement was only in his peripheral vision, not straight on. There was something almost _private_ in this moment, between the kid and the snow and the sun, and Jason felt awkward standing witness. Not awkward enough that he’d actually let Replacement out of his sight or out of chain-reach, but still.

He stood sentry for half an hour before hauling the kid up to his feet. “All right, kiddo. You’re gonna get frostbite if you stay out here any longer.”

Tim blinked at Jason, almost like he’d forgotten Jason was there, but nodded, subdued, and didn’t protest when Jason carried him back into the house.

He didn’t speak even when Jason removed the gag and dressed him in dry clothing, re-chained him up by the kitchen window. There was a little alcove there, and Jason had installed a metal hoop into the wall below that he could attach the ankle shackles to. 

Tim sank into the alcove as soon as Jason readjusted his wrists to be chained in front of him, laid his cheek against the window and curled into the blankets and pillows kept there.

Jason let him be as he started on dinner prep. He also put on a pot of milk for hot chocolate. When dinner—a simple chicken casserole—was in the oven, Jason gathered two mugs of hot chocolate and dragged his chair over to the Replacement’s alcove.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asked, handing over one of the hot chocolates and sitting down.

Tim startled and blinked back at him, accepted the mug.

Jason unlatched his helmet and placed it in reach behind his chair—out of reach for the Replacement.

Tim took a sip of hot chocolate, a slight frown creasing his brow. Jason was beginning to think that he wasn’t going to speak at all when he broke the silence.

“I just miss it,” he said. “Being outside. The wind. Flying.”

“Yeah,” said Jason, softly. “Sorry.”

Tim shrugged. “I’d say ‘not your fault,’ but…”

Jason huffed in reluctant amusement. “Still.”

“Mm.” He took another sip of hot chocolate. “Thanks.”

Something twisted in Jason’s guts and he didn’t respond.

Tim was still frowning, his focus on Jason now. “Do you ever miss it?” he asked.

“What, outside?” Jason scoffed. “I think you’re getting us confused, Replacement. _I_ can go outside whenever.”

Tim just cocked his head, thoughtful. “How often do you take your helmet off outside? Or inside, for that matter.”

Jason took a swig of hot chocolate and didn’t answer.

“When was the last time you felt the wind on your face?”

“Fuck off, Replacement. It’s a security risk.”

Replacement shrugged. “Just wondering. I thought…” He bit his lip, uncertain, his gaze returning to the darkening sky outside. “I thought maybe you’d miss it too. The feeling of flying, wind all around, the swoop and the catch. Feeling _alive_ like that.”

Jason followed his stare out the window. “Yeah, well. I’m dead. So I can’t really ‘feel alive’ anymore.”

Tim cut him a look. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant, Replacement.” He got up, kicked his chair out of the way. Threw a book at the kid a bit harder than necessary. “Read it,” he said. “It’s some sci-fi, fantasy, Lovecraftian bullshit. Except, unlike Lovecraft, it’s actually good. You’ll like it.”

Tim eyed him skeptically.

Jason rolled his eyes. Replacement _would_ like it. It was N.K. Jemisin. _Everybody_ liked N.K. Jemisin. Jason appreciated rising from the grave if only because this book hadn’t been published yet when he died. “Read it, and we’ll talk about what Gotham’s avatar would be like.”

“I don’t even know what that means, and I already know that Gotham’s avatar would be horrific.”

Jason snorted, but his tone was wistful and fond when he spoke. “Yeah, she really would be.”

* * *

It was around 2am and Jason was washing the dishes and listening to batchatter—Tim safely stashed in the basement bunker—when a new voice crackled through the comms, young and female with a Narrows accent. “Hey, B, you know what would help us find Red Hood?”

Jason frowned, and turned up the volume, tuned in a bit more. He hadn’t ever heard that voice before. A new player this far into the game made him nervous.Would this mystery speaker fuck up his plans?

B responded to this new voice with his ‘shut up’ growl.

“If I went out as Robin.”

“No.”

Jason rolled his eyes. That was classic B, shooting down anyone else’s idea before even considering it. Though in this case, Jason was on his side. It’d be really _inconvenient_ if he had to go to Gotham and intentionally spring the bats’ trap just because B threw another kid out there in his uniform.

“C’mon. We know Hood is hunting Robins, I’m a Robin, we make a trap.”

“We are not discussing this.”

“Do you have any other ideas? Not even better ideas, just _other_.”

Silence.

Jason snorted. New girl was funny, and she wasn’t scared of B. Jason decided he liked her.

“See? I’m right. I’m trained, I’m _here_ , I’ve been Robin before—”

Wait. _What?_ Had he missed one?

“Spoiler, no,” cut in B’s growl.

 _Spoiler?_ That was the girl one’s name, wasn’t it? The name she’d used before and after her turn as Robin? Her name was…something that started with S. Tim had said it at some point. Stacy? Sarah? Sophie? Something like that. He actually hadn’t known her civilian identity before kidnapping Tim—whoever she was, she wasn’t publicly connected to Bruce Wayne in any way Jason could figure out. Wasn’t she supposed to be dead? Was _everyone_ just popping back up from grave? Was this just a _thing_ now? Was it a Robin thing, specifically? Did they need to form a club?

“I think you mean, _Robin, yes_ ,” the dead girl retorted.

“You are not Robin. That’s final. You never should have been Robin in the first place.”

“Ouch.” The girl’s tone was joking, but there was real hurt under it. Jason winced in sympathy. Just hearing those words in his ears…it _hurt_. Even though it wasn’t aimed at him. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t.

Jason very deliberately set the plate he’d been washing down in the sink, backed up and breathed. He was in control. He was.

Spoiler-slash-Robin (Sam, maybe?) rebounded quickly, a vicious kick in her voice. “So I guess when you said I really was Robin, you know, _when I was on my deathbed_ , that was just a lie to comfort a dying girl. Harsh. And, sure, I get why you didn’t set up a monument for me—it’s not like I was ever anything close to Ja—”

“Names,” B growled.

Jason stopped breathing. _A monument? What was she talking about?_

The conversation went on without him, and Jason nearly missed the next bit.

A deep breath in over the comms. And out. “I was Robin, B. I _died_ in this goddamn war, and sure, it wasn’t for as long as death usually is, but I died trying to _fix_ things, trying to _save_ people, and that _meant_ something. It _did,_ no matter how much of an asshole you’re being about it. If T—if _Robin_ dies because of some shitty Joker knock-off, what the fuck does that mean? Fucking nothing, is what!”

 _Oh, you want to see a shitty Joker knock-off?_ Jason would show her a shitty fucking Joker knock-off. _Breathe. Don’t break your hand punching the marble counter_. Jason formed a fist, felt the ache and crack in his bones.

“And he deserves better than that,” Spoiler-Robin went on. “He deserves better than to be, just, some expendable sidekick! And I know—I _know_ —that Robin set himself up as just the shitty stand-in for—for Robins One and Two, someone to hold the fort, because God knows I did the same exact thing, and it was never—I was never good enough for you, fine, whatever. But he deserves better. _I_ deserved better! We deserve someone who actually fucking cares about us, someone who will fucking come when we get hurt! At least you tried to save—Robin Two. I mean, you failed pretty fucking miserably, but at least you _tried_. We deserve at least that much. At _least_.”

“Spoiler.” That was Dick, his voice soft and horrified. “Take a breather.”

Jason was hollow. He was hollow, he was empty, he couldn’t, he couldn’t—

“Fuck you. You know I’m right.”

“Spoiler, please—” Dick tried.

“No. No! I’m not going to—I _know_ what it feels like, to be tortured and held and know that there’s no backup coming, and—”

“Spoiler, stand down.” It looked like B got his voice back. “You will not play Robin. End of discussion.”

A frustrated scream, caged in behind closed teeth. “Fine. I guess I’ll just do it myself if you’re gonna go all big broody on this. You can show up as back-up, if you want.”

“Not acceptable,” Batman rejoined. “You ‘died’”—and oh, there was scorn there—“because you didn’t follow orders. Orders there were a good reason for. _Robin Two_ died because he didn’t follow orders.”

 _Fuck you, old man. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you_.

“You will not put on a mask. Never again. That’s an order, and you _will_ follow it.”

 _Or die_ , went unspoken, maybe only in Jason’s head. He was hyperventilating. He couldn’t think. He needed to get the voices out of his head— _too much, too much, he couldn’t deal with this_ —but he couldn’t seem do muster up the wherewithall to figure out how to get them _out_. He was holding a sponge on a stick, one of those plastic ones where the soap could go in the handle. There wasn’t any soap in the handle. That seemed important, for some reason.

Jason stared at the sponge. Voices washed over him, Bruce and Spoiler and hA hA HA hA HA ha HA. Sheila. Willis and Catherine, fighting over something. Flesh on flesh on bone and _crunch_.

He tilted the sponge brush, looked at the transparent handle. The world looked different through the distorted plastic. There should be soap in there. Right?

“You know what he said to me, B?” Spoiler was saying when Jason tuned back in. “You know what he said? Black Mask, right after he shot me, right after I _chose_ not to shoot him because I was following _your_ fucking rules, I was being _your_ good soldier? Right before he left, he said, _‘Tell him “thank you,” from me. Thank you so much, Batman, for sending such lovely, poorly trained children my way.’_ ”

Spoiler was panting. Or maybe that was Jason.

 _Anyway, be a good boy. Finish your homework and be in bed by 9:00. And, hey…please tell the Big Man I said, ‘hello.’_ Laughter. Pain. Agony and agony and blood and fire. Dirt in his mouth. Exposed bone scraping against concrete. Green.

Jason was on the floor, curled up in a ball. He wasn’t sure when he’d dropped. The sponge-brush was also on the floor, maybe four feet away from him. He should pick it up. Bad manners to leave a mess behind.

“And that’s _exactly_ why you shouldn’t be going out. I should never have let you out in the first place. Nor Robin. Nor Jay—Robin Two.”

 _No names on comms_ , Jason thought distantly. For the B-Man to be messing that up…it meant something, but he was too overwhelmed to figure out what.

“You are out of shape, insufficiently trained, too young, too impulsive, too _fragile_! If I hadn’t let—” B cut himself off. “You aren’t going out, even if I have to tie you up in a cell to keep you from it.”

The comms were dead silent. For a long moment, Jason thought Spoiler might have disconnected. But then her voice came through again, low and rough. “Yeah, no. Not your call. It’s not your fault that I died, B. But it wasn’t mine, either. Or Robin Two’s. We disobeyed orders and we got killed for it. Trying to _help_ people. Because that’s what we _do_. That’s the whole fucking point of Robin. To _care_. And I will never apologize for caring. For trying to do the right thing. And I would do it all over again. Not the—not the starting a gang war, _obviously_ not, but the trying to help, even if it killed me. And that doesn’t mean that it’s my _fault_ that I died, B. Just like it wasn’t Jason’s fault, either. No matter what you say about _orders._ ”

Jason was crying, a steady stream of silent tears. He wasn’t sure when he had started, but he didn’t think he could stop.

“The only people you can put that on are the fucking psychopaths who tortured us.” Spoiler inhaled, and Jason breathed with her. It felt like absolution. It felt like damnation.

“I’ll tell you what, though. If you don’t do everything within your power to get Robin back? If you try and _stop_ me from helping him? His death _will_ be on you. It’ll be on Red Hood too, yeah, but also on you. Can you live with his blood on your hands?”

And maybe Jason was imagining it, but he could have sworn he heard a whisper. “I live with Jason’s every day.”

Jason finally remembered how to undo his clasps, to push his helmet off his head and bowl it away to skitter across the floor.

 _Okay_. Okay. Focus on what’s important. Spoiler was back. Spoiler-who-had-been-Robin-and-had-been-dead was back. Stevie. Stella. Sidney. Whatever the fuck her name was. She was back. Sounded like there was a story there, but it didn’t matter. She had died, just like Jason, and she was back, just like Jason, and she was throwing herself face-first into a fistful of violence that would tear her apart.

Jason had to get her out of there.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

Barbara did _not_ want to be in the Cave when Bruce and Dick got back after patrol. There was a problem with that, though, as she was running comms, and had to be at least semi-available until they got back. God, she missed the Clocktower. If she’d been there, she could have stayed on comms all night and never had to see any bat face-to-face if she didn’t want to. Fuck Black Mask for making her blow it up.

She was trying— _really hard_ —not to blame Stephanie for that too. It had been easier when Steph had been dead. Babs closed her eyes and breathed, swallowed against the sour taste of guilt in her mouth. Nothing had changed, except now she knew that Steph had survived being tortured by Black Mask. That shouldn’t have anything to do with whether it was Steph’s fault or not.

But for some reason it did. She hated that about herself, but it wouldn’t do any good to try and ignore it. Just, recognize it, acknowledge it, let it go, and move on.

She started the process of shutting everything down for the night as soon as Nightwing and Batman started heading home. Dick was staying in the manor until they found Tim.

Or—as Barbara was thinking would be increasingly likely—until the next crisis or the next blowout between Dick and B. And if she knew either of them, they were having it out right now after the truly horrendous fight Steph had sparked off earlier that night.

Stephanie herself had stormed off into the manor halfway through the fight, and Alfred had gone after her, so she couldn’t even take the coward’s way out and ask Agent A to be the welcoming committee.

She flicked the last of the necessary switches off as the Batmobile pulled into the tunnel. Turned off most of the lights, and wheeled herself to the elevator, around a corner from the vehicle bay.

The Batmobile pulled up as she was waiting, and a door slammed closed as soon as the car squealed to a stop.

“What is your actual fucking problem, B? Because it’s not with the plan. It’s a good plan; it’s the _only_ plan we currently have.”

“It’s dangerous.” B was in full Batman-voice

“Everything we do is dangerous. Steph _knows_ it’s dangerous. She has literally _died_ for one of our plans before! She knows the risks.”

“She didn’t die!” B’s voice cracked. “She didn’t die, and Jason _did_ , and how can you ask—”

The elevator dinged open, and the Cave went silent as a swath of bright light cut through it.

“I’m just…going home now,” said Barbara. _She_ wanted to die _._

Dick cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Night, Babs.”

“Good night.”

B’s cape snapped as he went off in a dramatic huff.

The elevator doors dinged closed, and Barbara slowly exhaled, shaking, cradling her head in her hands.

She really missed the Clocktower.

* * *

Despite her distaste for spending any time in the Cave or Wayne Manor, Barbara was back there at 2pm the next day so she could sit in on the scheduled call with Cass. That was going to be through the Justice League’s systems, and her home set-up didn’t have the necessary access.

Steph was snacking in the kitchen when she got there. “Hey. Clementine?”

“No thanks.”

Steph shrugged, threw the offered fruit up into the air and disappeared it up her sleeve in some kind of slight-of-hand. She pushed herself off the counter and strode towards Babs. “So—”

Barbara held up a hand. “If you’re planning on trying to convince me of your Robin plan, no need. I don’t _like_ it, especially since you’re not in fighting shape right now, but if we get you as armored as possible, tracked to the gills, and have Superman as back-up, I’ll back your play.”

“Oh.” Steph bounced on her toes. “Okay. Kon, Cassie, and Bart also want to be back-up. I talked to them about it this morning.”

Barbara sighed. She did _not_ want to coordinate the notoriously unmanagable ex-Young Justicers. “If B agrees to it, fine.”

Steph’s face soured, and she stuck her tongue out at Babs. They both knew that Bruce might break his “no metas in Gotham” rule for Superman, but not for the three young heroes.

“You’re going down to talk to Cass?”

“Yeah.”

Steph nodded and invited herself into the elevator to the Cave with Barbara. Babs rubbed at her temples. Bruce was going to blame Stephanie’s presence on Barbara and get all snippy, especially after what she’d overheard last night.

Thankfully B was in full mission-mode, and therefore all his snippiness was silent. Everyone except B got kicked out of the communication station, a small room carved out from the larger cave, because technically _none_ of them had the clearance to know about this mission. Even though Babs had read through all the records, because that’s what she _did_.

But they all hung around right outside the doorway in domino masks, like naughty children outside the principal’s office, even though Babs was nearing _thirty_ , and Dick wasn’t that far behind.

None of her bugs inside the room were working, which was just annoying, because by this point Bruce should _know_ that if he bugged her, she was going to bug him right back. Now she actually had to sweep her place for Bruce’s surveillance so that they’d be even.

Finally, the door clicked open, a signal that they could enter. Dick entered first, holding the door open for Babs as he went. Cass was visible on a video screen.

“Oracle,” said Batman, “can you arrange to deliver a plane to Batgirl at her current coordinates?”

“Yeah, of course. Might take a few hours; you’re pretty remote.”

B shot her an annoyed glance; she wasn’t supposed to know where Cass was. She just raised an eyebrow in response. She knew Bruce could sense it even with the domino masking her face.

“A few hours is good,” said Cass. “I need to sleep. Before I fly. And…take care of my wounds. It is…not helpful…to Tim? for Tim? It is not helpful for Tim if I crash.”

“Or,” Steph slipped into the camera’s view, “you could ask Superman to fly you. Or Ko-Superboy. Superboy would definitely do it.”

Cass shot up, ramrod straight, staring at the screen.

Dick sighed. “Oh my god, B, did you not tell Batgirl about Spoiler’s return?”

Batman shifted. “It wasn’t mission-critical. In addition, the suggestion for Superboy or Superman to retrieve Batgirl is not resource-efficient and needlessly involves outside heroes in Gotham business.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dick shook his head. “Okay. Let’s you and I go, and Batgirl can catch up with Oracle and Spoiler and sort out transport.”

Batman paused, but allowed himself to be ushered out.

“Stephanie?” asked Cass, when the door closed behind him. “Are you…real?”

“Yeah.” Steph’s voice cracked as she stepped closer to the camera. “Hi, Cass. I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier that I’m still alive.”

“…Oh.”

“I wanted to let you know in person—I know it’s easier for you, not through the screen. Um, but we can talk now, if you want? Or after you get back to Gotham?”

There was a pause while Cass thought. She was in her full Batgirl mask, so it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “Tell me…the facts now. And then…when I get back…we will talk. For the feelings. About the feelings? Which one is it?”

“About our feelings.” Stephanie’s whole face lit up in a smile when she was talking to Cass. “And okay.” She proceeded to relay the barebones of what happened with Black Mask, how she’d died on the table, how Leslie Thompkins had spirited her away, how she’d returned only to find Tim and Cass gone.

“Um, but we have a plan. To find Tim. If Red Hood is hunting Robins, and I go out as Robin…we can trap him.”

Cass was still for a long moment. Then, “Wait for me?” she asked. “This plan…it will take time. Many days. For Red Hood to notice. To…decide to act. I will sleep and fly back tomorrow. Then I will patrol with you. To be…behind? No, backup. I will be backup. It has been…many days already. One more day will not make it… more bad? worse. Will not make it worse for Tim.”

Steph swallowed, nodded. “Yeah, okay. Do you want me to ask Kon to come get you? Then you could sleep here and maybe even patrol tonight.”

Barbara sent a look to Steph. “If you go behind B’s back to have Kon bring her, there’s no way he’ll greenlight them coming in later.”

Steph grimaced. “Two of them have super speed, and the other one can fly. They can be backup even without B’s _permission_.”

Cass was shaking her head. “Do not send Superboy. I need…some time. To rest. And to think. Even if I am in Gotham tonight…I need more time. Flying…will be good. To help me think. And I will be there tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Steph, easily giving ground where she’d left none before. “Okay. We’ll see you tomorrow, then. And, um, you don’t have to say anything back, but I just…I’m really glad you’re okay, Cass. I missed you so much, and I’m sorry…again. I love you.” She smiled awkwardly and stepped away from the camera, melted into the shadows in certified Bat fashion.

Cass was silent and still for a moment. Then she nodded softly to herself, turned to the camera. “You will send me the plane, Oracle?”

“Yeah.” Babs swung herself in front of the computer, pulled up the videolink’s coordinates. It wasn’t the main Batcomputer, but it still did the job pretty damn well. “Okay, I can get you an unmodified Slipstream that’ll make it across the Pacific. You’ll still need to refuel on the West Coast. Or go the other way around, and refuel in Europe.”

“West Coast. Fewer…eyes? watchers? Fewer eyes.”

“Okay. It’ll be mostly on autopilot, but just in case, everything is labelled…wait.” She took of her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose. _How on earth was she going to communicate everything that Cass needed to know about the plane?_ “I’ll going to send you some pictures of the cockpit and controls, and then…I guess we can go over what everything does, how to fly it.” Christ, this was going to take _ages_.

“I don’t need pictures. I know how to fly.”

And of course Cass was going to make this difficult. “Okay, but every plane is different, and a lot of the controls and buttons will be labelled, and you won’t know what they’re saying—”

“ _I know how to fly_ ,” Cass insisted.

“Cass, please, I’m just trying to help—”

“I don’t want your help.”

“But you need it!” Barbara snapped. She immediately winced. She could feel Stephanie tensing in the shadows. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s been…a long couple of weeks. I just meant—you need to know what the controls are. Just in case. So we’ll go over it.”

“ _I do not need your help_.” Angry. Definitely angry. “Stop treating me like I’m stupid.” 

“Cass, I’m sorry! Okay? I don’t think you’re stupid, it was stupid of _me_ to say that in the first place, but you _can’t read_ , and I need to get this information to you, so if you would just _listen_ —”

“I am listening,” said Cass. “You are not. _I know how to fly_. The Slipstream. It is the same as the Batplane, yes? Except…civilian. I know how to fly it. Bruce showed me.”

“…Oh.” Babs felt the heat rush to her cheeks. How had she messed up this exact same thing _again_? “Cass, I’m so sorry…” She was intensely aware of Stephanie in the corner, who was watching this whole scene intently.

“I know,” said Cass, “that you are sorry. But…it is not enough. You still…you treat me like…you think I can’t understand things. I can. I know what I can do…and what I cannot do. You need to _listen_ when I say. When I tell you…what I can do. And what I cannot. What I need. Before, when we were in Gotham, right before…when Spoiler…did not die. I asked you. Where she was. You said…I can’t remember the words. But you acted like…it was not important. And I tried…to ask more. But you did not _listen.”_ Babs closed her eyes, and she knew _exactly_ what Cass was talking about, because hadn’t she played that exact same exchange, over and over again in her nightmares? She was intensely aware of Stephanie behind her somewhere, uncharacteristically quiet and still, but she wasn’t sure if Cass knew she was still in the room. 

“I need you to listen, and… _trust_ me. And do not speak…on top? no, over. Do not speak over me. Or speak…down to me. Then…we will be good.”

Babs took a deep breath in. Tried to calm down. She could be such an _idiot_ sometimes. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I can do that. And for what it’s worth, I _am_ really sorry.”

Cass shook her head. “Do not be sorry. Do… _better_.” She nodded, crisp and decisive. “Do better.”

It took a few more minutes to sort everything out so that she could sign off and turn to go—

“Was that true?” Stephanie’s voice was rough. “What Cass said,” she added, as if there was any need for clarification.

“ _Steph_.” Babs spun her chair around to face her. “I am so sorry. And if you don’t think it haunts me every day, that maybe I could’ve stopped you from being tortured, if I’d just been…”

“There was a gang war going on,” said Steph, her face stony and cold. “The city was in chaos. I wasn’t a bat; you had other priorities. I get it. You’re only one person. Whatever.”

“Stephanie, if I had known—”

“You didn’t. It’s fine.” Her tone said it was anything but fine. She took in a shuddering breath. “Did you really call Cass stupid?”

Barbara flinched. “Yeah.” She swallowed. “I did. I regretted it the moment it came out of my mouth, but—”

“Damage was done.”

“Yeah.”

“She was looking for me. Cass. When Black Mask had me? She was looking?”

“Yeah, she was. As far as we could tell, reconstructing it, she took out half the city looking for you.”

“…Oh.”

Hesitantly, Babs reached out a hand.

“ _Don’t_.” Steph snarled, took a step back. “Don’t touch me.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t—Aaagh!” She let forth a scream of pure _anguish_ that echoed around the small chamber.

Babs winced as the noise pierced through her ears.

“Don’t fucking—I can’t—I can’t fucking talk about this right now!”

“That—”

A hiss from Stephanie cut her off. “Don’t—just don’t talk! Don’t—” She strangled the air in front of her, paced like a caged tiger, finally pulled herself together with a low growl.

“ _You_ are going to convince B to follow my plan and let Young Justice play backup. _I_ am going to get some fucking air. Don’t wait up.” She marched towards the door.

“Steph—wait!”

The girl whirled around, eyes flashing. “ _What_?”

“Don’t do anything stu—anything reckless.”

“Don’t worry, if I do, I’m apparently in good company.”

Babs clenched her fist, tried not to let it show on her face. “Just don’t go after Hood tonight. Or—anyone. Steph, you just got back, and you’re not in fighting condition.”

Steph glared at her through red-rimmed eyes. “I promised Cass that I’d wait until tomorrow. I don’t go back on my word.”

Babs swallowed something sour tasting and closed her eyes. “Stay safe.”

“Like you care,” was Steph’s parting shot, mumbled under her breath, and Babs slumped over the monitor desk as the door slammed behind her.

She let herself stay sunken into the desk for two minutes, counting the seconds as they went by. “Of course I care,” she whispered to the empty room.

Then she forced herself up and back out to the main cave. She had a Robin to find, a plane to remotely pilot, a villain to catch. Oracle had to prioritize, and Barbara’s feelings of shame and inadequacy and heartbreak weren’t even on the list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Canon references:**
> 
> **Batgirl #54:** Cass is fighting an android with a self-destruct word in a library. She can’t read the off-word, and Babs calls her stupid. It’s *heartbreaking.* Here’s the exchange:  
> Babs: Well then, what are you waiting for? What is it?  
> Cass: I--I don’t know. I can’t read.  
> Babs: Dammit, Cassie, I know you can’t read! Just tell me the letters and I’ll work it out, okay?  
> Cass: There’s one of those…um…straight lines going up, with a round thing on the--  
> Babs: You’re kidding--You still don’t even know the damn alphabet?! All those hours you spend practicing martial arts and you can’t spare the time to learn your #*$% ABC’s?! For God’s sake, Cassie--how stupid can you be?!  
> Cass: I--I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. But I just…can’t…   
> [Fight continues, Cass tricks the android into reading it’s own self-destruct word]  
> [Later, at the clocktower] Babs: Cassie, I’m--um--I’m sorry I said…what I did…It’s just that--in the heat of the moment…I guess I was pretty upset about the library getting trashed…that place means a great deal to me…but what I said was wrong…and--and I’m sorry.  
> [Cass gives her a look, hurt and angry. There is no forgiveness. She walks out without saying anything.]   
> Babs: Cassandra--please…  
> [Later, in Cass’s room, we see that she’s tacked up the burnt scrap of paper with the self-destruct word onto her otherwise empty wall. She sits on the bed and stares at it, shoulders slumped and tears in her eyes]
> 
> [Then, in Batgirl #55, while Cass is grappling in between fights as the city breaks out into all-out war]:  
> Cass: Where’s Spoiler?  
> Babs: Stephanie? Um, hello? News flash…Bruce fired her as Robin days ago. She’s not on the team anymore--remember?  
> Cass: Don’t…talk to me like that. Like I’m stupid.  
> Babs: Look--Cass, I’m sorry, okay? Thirty hours without sleep doesn’t exactly make me Miss Congeniality…Now can we please stay focused on the job? Take a left at Gibson Plaza.  
> Cass: So, where is she?  
> Babs: Oh, for crying out loud! I have no idea where Stephanie is! And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little too busy right now to find out! She’s probably at home, fast asleep in her nice soft cozy bed…like I should be…  
> [Cass finds Steph, who is fighting people as Spoiler, knocks out a guy who was going to shoot Steph]  
> Cass: You okay?  
> Steph: I’m--I’m fine. Thanks.  
> Cass: You shouldn’t be here, Stephanie.  
> Steph: I know. I just…I wanted to help.  
> Cass: Get off the streets. Go home.   
> Steph: I…I will. [Grapples away]  
> Cass: Wait! Stephanie! [Follows her] Are you lying to me?  
> [Steph looks at her. It’s dramatic. Steph jumps off the roof.]  
> Cass: Stephanie!!  
> Babs, over the comms: Batgirl--this is Oracle! We’ve got an emergency!  
> Cass: What?!  
> Babs: Drop whatever you’re doing, Cass. Batman needs you over at Louis Grieve High [Tim’s school].  
> Cass: …  
> Cass: …Now?  
> Babs: Yes, now! I’ll fill you in on the way--just move it!  
> [Cass jumps on a helicopter flying by, gaze focused back on the streets below where Steph disappeared. This is the last time she sees Steph alive. After rescuing Tim, Cass spends basically two whole issues just rampaging through the city looking for Steph. After the War Games arc, Babs and Cass don’t have any more direct contact. So…this is the first time they’ve talked since then.]
> 
> Bab’s stupid comment is returned to later in the Batgirl series when they see each other again, but that happens after where this fic breaks off from canon.
> 
> Barbara is one of my favorite characters of all time, but she’s not perfect by any means, and she can often be caustic, judgmental, and cruel without intending it. She is so, so smart, and gets impatient with anyone who can't keep up with her intellect and who doesn't have the same kind of intelligence as she does, and I wanted to explore that a bit here.
> 
>  **Robin Vol. 2 #131:** Steph beats Black Mask, almost kills him but decides not to shoot. Black Mask overpowers her and shoots her. This is where Black Mask’s parting words come from
> 
>  **Batman #633:** Steph dies—B tells her that it was real, that she was Robin, & promises to take care of her kid
> 
> According to the wiki, the Wayne Aeronautics Slipstream is the plane that the Batplane is based on ([dc.fandom.com/wiki/Wayne_Enterprises](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Wayne_Enterprises))
> 
> The book Jason throws at Tim is 'The City We Became' by N.K. Jemisin, which builds off her short story 'The City Born Great', which is available to read for free online.


End file.
